


Legend of Durin II: Return to Khazad-dum

by Scribe_of_Erebor



Series: The Legend of Durin [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Family Drama, Gen, History of Middle Earth, Hurt/Comfort, Khazad-dum, Silmarillion - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:50:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 46
Words: 157,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribe_of_Erebor/pseuds/Scribe_of_Erebor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fourteen years after the War of the Rings, Erebor prospers under the able rule of its princes and Thorin Oakenshield, Lord Durin Returned, prepares to retake the ancient kingdom of Moria, but fouler things than orcs and goblins await him in the dark...  NO SLASH - some violence.  Updates on Mondays!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Was Before

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

_Historian’s Note: This manuscript is a direct translation from notes written during interviews with the participants. Due to the multiple languages common among the dwarrow, some explanation is needed. Spoken Westron is denoted by the standard “speaker marks”, spoken Khuzdul with “italics within speaker marks” and the sign language Iglishmêk with ‘single speaker marks’. Place names in Khuzdul have been left untranslated unless absolutely necessary for clarity. For non-dwarrow readers unversed in Middle Earth history, the following guide is given for the lives of the seven Durins._

_Durin I (the Deathless) – Early First Age to about 590_

_He vanished in the final battle against Morgoth, presumed slain, though no body was ever located._

_Durin II (the Mithril Lord) – Second Age 600 to Second Age 1421_

_Thrice great-grandson of Durin I_

_Aid Frér (1329-1421)_

_Durin III (the Elf Friend) – Second Age 1227 to Second Age 1821_

_Grandson of Durin II_

_Given the Greatest Ring of the Seven by Celebrimbor_

_Durin IV (the Iron Hand) – Second Age 3277 to Third Age 233_

_Led the Khazad through the Last Alliance and the defeat of Sauron_

_Durin V (the Wise) – Third Age 1159 to Third Age 1829_

_Murdered by his son (Durin VI) over leadership of Khazad-dûm_

_Durin VI (the Fallen) – Third Age 1731 to Third Age 1980_

_Killed by the Balrog his greed had awoken beneath Khazad-dûm_

_Durin VII (the Last) – Third Age 2746 to Third Age 2941 / Fourth Age 1 to Present_

_Originally called Thorin Oakenshield (though this is becoming little known throughout the non-Khazad kingdoms)_

_Killed at the Battle of the Five Armies and revived after the Fall of Sauron_

_-Ori II, son of Nori, Scribe of Erebor_

_Fourth Age, Year 18_

1\. What was Before

Thorin Oakenshield reined in his pony to look down upon a valley that would forever be the site of uncounted sorrow for those dwarrow of Durin’s Folk, ignoring the restless muttering among the dwarrow of his army at his back. Rock, the dull grey of dwarrow tears, was almost hidden this warm spring day, however, by the bright greens, oranges, and splashes of deep purple of the mountain lichen, blooming in the sun, colors reflected in the still waters of the small pond beyond, as if this place had not once been bathed in blood. It seemed almost a sacrilege, now, to feel the peace here, the beauty, even as an air of solemnity hung about, as if the world paused, waiting for the sound of a single step to set all into motion again. For a long moment, Thorin could not help hesitating, wishing that he could stay within this moment forever more instead of facing what might be, the horrors his dreams had been conjuring for too many nights.

It was the deepest twisting of fate that it was his step, his word, that was awaited now, for this seemingly tranquil place was not only where a king and prince had fallen along with so many others, but where the road that led to madness and ruin had begun, and could be so once again. Would his word bring back the forgotten glories of dwarrow past, or condemn their race to fade and die, as the elves did even now? Was it wind from the peaks whistling in his ears, clean and fresh, or the filthy screams of orcs, come to maim and slaughter? Though he knew it to be impossible, he could almost smell the sickening odor of dwarrow bodies being burned as the bright colors gave way to red and black, the ashes scattered in waters of a nearby lake instead of being returned to rest in the bedrock beneath the mountains from which their race had been made long ago. 

Suddenly unable to utter coherent words past a throat choked by emotion, the dwarf silently urged his mount to take a single step forward; the first step upon the path of redemption and healing for a race and a king, toward a goal whispered in dark tales and glorified in ancient song- Azanulbizar, the Eastern Gate of Khazad-dûm. Eyes tracked once more to the pool so still that it reflected the cloudless sky and the peaks towering above, equally famous and familiar from the time he was little more than a babe, listening to the stories of their people read in his grandfather’s deep voice beside the fire in Erebor. 

Heedless of the voices of his companions and the scramble of his personal guard, the king urged his pony down the slope until he could slip from her back to once again stand upon the shore of Kheled-zaram, the Mirrormere, where countless others of his line had also stood, paying homage to their ultimate ancestor, Durin the Deathless. To him, this bit of water would forever signify the duality of his life- the pain of a prince whose heart had been torn asunder only to be clumsily mended with the fire of anger, the forging invisibly, and fatally, flawed; the promise of a new beginning and the weight of the past in the shadowy forms of six other dwarrow who came before, if only he could release the prince of the past and embrace the king lurking deep within. Thorin closed his eyes and bowed his head as he sank to his knees on the rocks, unable to deny his memories any longer as he was drawn into a past so real that he could still hear the echoes of their cries, the pain of the physically injured mixing with the wail of those whose grief could not be contained.

_Thorin was on his knees, the rocky shore of the Kheled-zaram biting into his knees adding yet one more pain onto an already beaten body, but the young prince made no move to rise. Before him, the ashes he’d just poured silently into the still waters spread in a cloud and began to sink from sight to find their eternal resting place upon the bottom amid the reflection of Durin’s Crown, the constellation seen by day or night there. Thrór, King under the Mountain. Frérin, Prince of Durin’s Folk. Fundin, Lore Keeper of Erebor and Dwarf Lord in his own right. They were the first of the lords to be given the funerary rights of their people, so hastily arranged lest the orcs press out from the ancient halls once more, but Thorin feared that they would not be the last._

_Even now, those still able searched among the countless bodies for those who clung to life…though too many would be found only to breathe their last this day. And those were the lucky one. Some had suffered the same fate as Frérin’s patrol the day before the battle, so savaged by the orcs that only their armor and other personal items allowed them to be identified. It was in part those brutal mutilations that had fueled the rage of the attacking dwarrow even before the beheading of their king. Thorin’s hands tightened on the rocky ground as he struggled with tears once more, the bloody mess of his baby brother brought back all too sharply by the thought. He could only pray to Mahal that the youngest prince had already been dead before it happened. Gagging on bile, he forced his mind back to what he was doing._

_By tradition, only the lords would be consigned to the sacred waters of the Kheled-zâram, as they would have had separate tombs had the dwarrow been able to do so. Those not of Durin’s Folk would have their ashes returned to kin and their own rocky halls far to the east and west, but for too many, there was no home to return to beyond a bare encampment of rough tents in the wilds beyond the Anduin, where the refugees of Erebor waited. There would be no triumphant return to their ancient halls, now, though, only the tears of yet more dead. With no proper honorarium to house the ashes, they would be scattered in a small lake just over the rise. An honored place, but not here, where Durin the Deathless had once knelt…_

_As if summoned by that thought, Thorin passed a hand in front of his eyes as his vision seemed to blur and first one face, then more, rose from the cloud of ash in the water, piercing blue eyes locked upon his own, assessing, judging… The prince’s already torn and bloody hands clutched at the rock desperately as he swayed, mind trying to fathom the history rising before him while also attempting to deny this as born of weakness and the horrors of battle overwhelming him, for none but Durin himself had ever seen a reflection here._

_Was he going insane, to see such things? There was no need to ask who these strange dwarrow were, six faces, alike to one another, yet each subtly unique, though he could not seem to see details. Did Durin truly show himself to an unworthy descendent, or would he, too, begin to rave and swing a battle ax at friend and foe alike, and even empty air, as witnesses said his father had before disappearing in the midst of the battle? Reeling physically with such fears, Thorin did not realize that he was on the brink of falling headfirst into the waters before him until a hand, warm, solid, alive, gripped his shoulder with bruising strength, pulling him back._

_“Thorin!”_

_The voice centered him, sight clearing once more to lock upon the kindly, worried eyes of Balin, his old friend and tutor in the labyrinth of dwarrow politics. The older dwarf knelt down before his prince as Thorin managed to twist his weary body around, putting his back to the images he’d seen. One of Balin’s hands came up to gently brush his hair away from a wound upon his forehead as the other made a sound of dismay.  
“They tell me you’ve not taken food, nor let anyone see to your injuries, let alone rested, my prince.”_

_Thorin didn’t bother to enquire as to who ‘they’ were, memories of the last day too painful, disjointed, for his exhausted mind to make sense of, nor did it truly matter. He ignored the unaccustomed use of formal address from the older dwarf, knowing that Balin spoke so at least partially due to those who may be listening from the other kingdoms, not able to bring himself to care about such things now. Licking dry lips, he could barely force a whisper past a throat made raw with shouting._

_“It was my duty to see to the king, and-“_

_“And you’ve done so.”_

_Balin cut him off curtly, undoubtedly to mask his own grief, eyes straying to the pool. His own father now rested there, and his sons had not the privilege of seeing it done because Thorin had been in too much of a fog of grief and pain to think that far. Thorin closed his eyes, cursing his own stupidity and blindness as the hand upon his shoulder tightened, giving him a little shake._

_“Don’t, lad.” The more familiar tone and term of endearment automatically causing Thorin to relax somewhat. “Dwalin and I already said our goodbyes when we set him upon the pyre. This was properly done by you alone; ‘tis tradition and Fundin would’ve wanted it that way. Now, though, we need to see you taken care of. Our people will need a leader in the days ahead, and ‘tis you they’ll look to.”_

_“Will they?” Thorin bit out, anger and doubt dripping off every word. “What has the elder line of Durin brought them save grief? They would have been better off begging for scraps upon bended knee before Nain! At least they’d be alive.”_

_“Would they?” Balin’s tone held some heat of its own, censorious of this new darkness his prince had fallen prey to. “Most would not call that truly living, including me! Come, can you stand?”_

_“I-“_

_Thorin’s eyes dropped to the rock in front of him, ashamed of his own weaknesses being so blatantly displayed. Truthfully, he doubted he could stay upright much longer, let alone climb to his feet; every one of his wounds, mostly minor though they were, burned and throbbed with growing pain. Balin must have made some motion that he did not see, for moments later, more hands were under his arms, gently pulling him upright and supporting his weight as he made several fumbling attempts to walk before his legs and feet consented to follow his commands. As they started across the vast fields to where the tents sheltered the wounded, he turned to see who aided his steps, finding Dwalin upon his right and Gróin upon the left._

_“Óin?”_

_He had the presence of mind to enquire even as he thanked Mahal he’d not have to bring yet more evil tidings to the doorstep of Glóin, his brother Frérin’s best friend, and Gróin’s younger son. The fiery red head had been deemed too young, barred from the army by his father, a reprieve not granted Frérin, who was of an age with his friend, though Glóin certainly hadn’t seen it as such. That one had been in a terrible rage for weeks leading up to their leaving; if tents had come with doors to slam, he doubted there’d have been one left intact! Glóin’s older brother, however…_

_“My son lives, though he took a severe head wound. When he woke earlier, he didn’t seem to hear the healer’s questions, though they’ve some hope that it may be temporary.”_

_“It’s as well that Glóin shouts most conversations already, then.”_

_Dwalin’s dry observation earned a bitter bark of laughter from Gróin, whose endless complaints about his younger son’s lack of volume control tended to appear with the least provocation. It was a mark of the depth of tragedy they faced that such poor jokes were the only way some could deal with the emotions set loose. The prince could only nod dumbly, more tears trickling down cheeks already made raw by earlier torrents._

_“Nain? Dain?”_

_Thorin could barely force out the names of his cousins from the Iron Hills, wondering how many more of Durin’s blood they would weep for. A grunt from his right answered this time._

_“Nain fell before the king did-that white orc. You did well killing that one, Thorin. Need to reinforce that oak with iron, though, might’ve protected your shield arm a bit more.”_

_It was only then that the prince realized that while his right arm was slung over Dwalin’s shoulders, Groin was supporting him on the other side with hands carefully wrapped around his upper arm, his lower sleeve slit to accommodate the massive swelling of the darkly bruised skin from the elbow down. He vaguely recalled the feel of rough wood in his hand as the mace slammed down- Thorin physically flinched away from the memory, forcing the others to halt as his stomach heaved even though there was nothing left there to vomit. Finally, the others aided him to straighten back up, and he spoke once more, trying to sound casual and failing miserably._

_“Thing’s probably trampled into the ground somewhere.”_

_“No.” Balin softly contradicted. “I picked it up. It’s with my things, lad. Thought it best kept track of as I’ve already heard some calling you ‘Oakenshield’. ‘Tis a worthy name, honorably won.”_

_Thorin’s lips twisted sourly as he rinsed his mouth with the water Dwalin offered, turning his head to spit it out upon the mangled remains of an orc. Such ‘honors’ were not something he could bring himself to think upon yet, mind twisting to latch onto a suitable distraction._

_“Dain?”_

_He repeated, hoping his slightly older cousin, at least, had been spared._

_“He will make an adequate lord for the Iron Hills, especially as his grandfather yet lives to guide him.”_

_“I thank you for the words of confidence, Gróin.” The dwarf in question seemed to appear before them as Thorin’s vision began to waver again, and he sagged a bit more into the support of the others. “Cousins. I see you found him. You look to be one thin support timber away from a full mine collapse, Thorin.”_

_“Was there something you needed, Dain?”_

_Thorin started, the sharp edge to Balin’s question cutting through the fog in his head. What had Dain done to warrant such hostility? Balin had always been tolerant to a fault, a mediating voice as the tension between the two factions of Durin’s Folk had grown after Erebor’s fall a dozen years earlier. The only thing that the prince could think might lie behind the hostility was the fact that Dain was bothering an injured and exhausted Thorin. If his friend’s attitude had been meant to deter the other, however, it didn’t work as he stayed stubbornly between them and the tent that was their goal. Dwalin’s low growl finally made the Iron Hills dwarf move, but he followed them into the tent anyway. By that time, Thorin was past caring as he was lowered gently onto a cot, his body sagging in relief._

_“I’ll find a healer.”_

_Dwalin’s low rumble made the prince reopen his eyes in time to see the spike of his hair ducking out the entrance to the tent. It was only as the flap slowly settled closed again that Thorin realized what a beautiful day it was outside, mild warmth and sunshine bathing the dwarrow in a mockery of the rain of tears falling from countless eyes._

_“The other clans wish to know if we continue this fight into Khazad-dûm. Cousins, I will be truthful- most wish only to return home, saying such actions would be folly.”_

_“So the death of our king means nothing?” Gróin’s outraged rumble marked the old dwarf at his most deadly. “The dead out there? We are upon the doorstep of our goal, and the others would give up!”_

_Dain had flushed with anger at the other’s words, but he did not answer and Thorin narrowed his eyes, forcing his sore body upright once more._

_“And what do you say, cousin?”_

_He asked, trying to recall if he’d had any glimpses of the other after the fighting had begun in earnest. The dwarrow of the Iron Hills had been on the left flank, where they’d pushed forward almost to the very doors of their ancient halls at one point, but the prince had lost track when Azog emerged. There was a heavy sigh from the new lord, but he met the blue of the slightly younger dwarf’s eyes resolutely._

_“I would say that I have looked into that black abyss and have seen only death. Perhaps one day Durin’s Folk will again walk those ancient halls, but it is not this day, cousin. Not while Durin’s Bane yet lurks below. Take your people elsewhere, Thorin; build a new life far from dragons and other foul beasts. Have they not suffered enough for the folly of Thrór?”_

That had engendered a rage from Gróin that Thorin had thankfully passed out in the middle of, if he recalled correctly, the memory twisting his lips in a bitter smile. Too bad it had not been nearly so simple as Dain’s words had made it seem, the king mused as his eyes opened to lock on the bright stars shining in the waters before him. With no clear proof of Thrain’s death, he’d been unable to force the hand of the King’s council into naming him king before he came of age. 

Instead, led by the conservative Gróin, they had bickered away the years while struggling to survive in what had only been meant as a temporary camp in the barren eastern plains known as the Brown Lands. Finally, Thorin had been able to seize control as king-in-exile, leading them to the ruins of Belegost in Ered Luin, but by that time, so many had died that some were advocating submitting to Dain’s rule in the Iron Hills and stripping the kingship from the elder Line of Durin. Worse, the mutterings had not stopped as they prospered at last, instead growing stronger as each passing year enhanced the nostalgic memories of Erebor’s riches-and the bitterness. It was that, in large part, which had forced Thorin’s hand in attempting a return to Erebor to preserve the inheritance of his nephews. Of course, none of the grumblers were willing to face the danger that their words had compelled their king to risk!

It was the deepest irony of all that what he’d fought so hard to prevent had been made inevitable by his death in the Battle of the Five Armies; Dain had become king of all Durin’s Folk, Thrór’s line seemingly spent. No one had known, then, of the poison slipped into Dain’s tea that had killed his wife and left his heir impotent, unable to sire children, threatening to end the bloodline of Durin completely. All who traced their lineage back directly to the eldest dwarrow Father had been urged to have children, Dain going so far as to compel Thorin’s widowed sister, Dis, into remarrying. One of the two children of that union was with him now, as Thorin’s heir, and he could not help the uneasiness such a trust engendered as the ill-fated quest to retake Erebor entered his thoughts once more.

Restless, and with memories pressing close, the king shifted his gaze to the side, avoiding looking directly into the waters lest the absence of his reflection give lie to his claims. Instead, his Durin blue eyes fell upon the ill-fated portal leading into Khazad-dûm, stone clean and grey in the sunlight, still not at ease with his own decision to return here, even though it had been prophesized long before. Too many times, he’d seen such things go awry to place faith in mumblings, no matter the assurances he mouthed to others. Nowhere had it been said outright that Khazad-dûm could again be returned to the glory it had known, only that the ancient realms would once more be theirs. 

It had been upon that slim hope that Balin, his old friend and mentor, had taken a group of dwarrow, including Óin and Ori, to return to the realm, only to meet his doom. A fool’s hope… and yet, had Thorin not gambled all upon a similar quest, only to see a dragon fall and a kingdom reclaimed to prosper once more? And had the Arkenstone, the Heart of the Mountain, not revealed itself as more powerful than any had guessed, not only returning Thorin and his nephews to life, but healing Kíli from a deadly poison later? It was that, not any vague signs or portents, which had proclaimed Thorin the last reincarnation of Durin the Deathless, eldest of the Seven Dwarrow Fathers and set his feet upon the path to reclaim their ancient realm! Heart firm once more, the king smoothly swung back around, looking fearlessly into the waters before him.


	2. We See Once More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the bumps on the road are examined... (Hobbits and nephews and elves, oh my!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

2\. We See Once More

It was almost an hour later when Thorin had returned to the peak, rejoining the others who’d stayed respectfully back when it became clear where their king intended to go, sending only his ever present bodyguards to stand as silent sentinels around him. He could see the question in Dwalin’s eyes, his old friend, cousin, shield brother, who’d been by his side for so many dark days. A slight nod brought a grimly satisfied smile to the old warrior’s lips, as if he’d had confirmed for him what he’d known all along. Perhaps he had, Thorin mused even as he bathed in the warm memory of seeing his own face in the water, crown of stars settling about his brow and glowing until they eclipsed all else. Dwalin had often had more faith in his liege than Thorin had in himself, especially when it came to finding the best path for his people.

Thorin’s mouth drew down in a frown as thoughts of old reminded him of his nearest, and likely to be troublesome, neighbor. In the far distance to his left as he sat upon the rise was the smudge of trees that marked the golden wood of Lothlorien, the realm of the elven lord Celeborn, though no longer of the Lady Galadriel. When first Bilbo Baggins, and then Frodo, had chosen not to sail into the West, she had gone with the other two bearers of the Elven rings of power, Elrond and Tharkûn, that most meddlesome of wizards, upon one of the white boats. The Lady had bid her husband to remain here a while longer, however, to aid the steps of the younger races in this new age. 

Thorin had rolled his eyes at the news, such instructions showcasing the sheer arrogance of the Firstborn, but also knew that Galadriel was unlikely to have meant it in such a condescending manner, at least not consciously. She and Elrond, of all the ancient elves that still walked Middle Earth, were the last to treat others as mere children, though both had their fair share of pride and utter surety in their own superiority. Too bad they’d both left over ten years ago now, leaving that arrogant, no good pile of trouble known as Thranduil behind, not to mention Celeborn. That one had a very low tolerance for dwarrow due to being kin to Thingol, the ancient elven king betrayed and murdered by dwarrow from Belegost. Of course, those had been of no relation to the Longbeards, but apparently if one dwarf was likely to commit such a crime, all must be, for the elves would fling such proof into the faces of dwarrow whenever the opportunity presented itself. For that reason, among others, Thorin had never planned upon, nor asked, for any help from elves, despite Galadriel’s offer fourteen years earlier.

Other aid, however, had been gratefully accepted when offered before he could even ask, and not all had come from the other dwarrow kingdoms, though all six had sent at least token forces after it became widely known that Thorin was, in fact, Durin VII. Thorin’s lips twisted into a bitter grimace at that, trying not to allow his temper to rise once more at the grudging response of the Ironfists, Stiffbeards, and Blacklocks, all eastern tribes, who’d agreed to each send a mere twenty-five volunteers – if they could get them. As these were the most likely to have members of the Death Warriors cult imbedded within, Thorin had been almost thankful for that token, and deliberately insulting, response. He’d heard the rumors after the War of the Ring, and seen the weapons seized from Sauron’s forces that were not the make of Men, orcs, or elves. How many had aided Sauron during that time, hidden in the shadows where they still lurked, waiting to strike an exposed back?

The Stonefoots, Firebeards, and Broadbeams had more than made up for the other three’s stinginess, each sending almost one hundred warriors, all battle-tested. With the three hundred from Erebor and the Iron Hills, this gave Thorin a little over six hundred dwarrow, a very respectable force even without outside aid. Given the close confines they’d be fighting in throughout much of the ancient kingdom, it would’ve been hard to have accepted more, especially with the others who swelled his numbers further.

The dwarf’s eyes focused on the huddle of tall figures, too large to be dwarrow and too muscular to be elves, standing near the heads of their horses, displaying the patient nature of warriors well used to the interminable wait before battle. When the kings of Gondor and of Rohan had learned that Thorin was at last preparing to move upon his ancient realm, it was felt that the Free Peoples of Middle Earth would all benefit from the cleansing, and so, the two major realms of Men had sent representatives. Two hundred strong, all were veterans of the last battles of the War of the Ring, vouched for by those few among Men Thorin trusted, and unlikely to be intimidated by the roughest dwarrow. 

Leading the group from the reunited realms of Gondor and Arnor was Mablung, the Ithilien Ranger, and his counterpart from the other side of the mountains, Balan, a Dúnedan, and distant cousin to the king. The coincidence of the name had been oddly reassuring to Thorin, especially when the tall, rangy man with the thick black hair had confessed to having met and admired the elder dwarf lord when Balin paid Bilbo a visit in the Shire many years before. While Rohan had also sent a few men, most of the Rohirrim were too uncomfortable below ground to be of much assistance, instead pledging to form a perimeter guard so that foes could not trap the dwarrow within Khazad-dûm. They would be taking orders from the two rangers, as several of their men would be with the outer patrol as well. Most of the support offered by the horse lords had come instead in the form of supplies, and the rangy, wild ponies to haul such things, for they had not forgotten the aid and friendship once given them by the ancient dwarrow of Khazad-dûm.

Even the Shire had sent canned goods from their gardens and pipe weed from their fields, along with pigs and other meat upon the hoof. The harvests in that small, once more peaceful land had been exceptional for the last decade, and true to their nature, the hobbits were happy to share. Most of that largesse was due, of course, to the combined influence of Meriadoc Brandybuck, the Master of Buckland, and Peregrin Took, the new Thain of the Shire. Not to mention a certain former gardener turned Mayor and Master of BagEnd. Merry and Pippin, as they preferred to be called, had both made the journey to Erebor to offer the aid in person, a trip made much shorter and safer by the escort of Elrond’s twin sons. 

As Frodo had but lately returned to the mountain kingdom he used as his main residence from his latest wanderings, it had made for a joyful reunion, replete with the type of mischief the younger hobbit duo and the dwarf princes, all three of them, had been notorious for, though Thorin had noted Kili’s odd reluctance uneasily, seeing it as yet one more sign of the profound changes worked upon his nephew by the traumas he’d endured.  
It had become clear after they returned to the mountain that much of the cheerful, prankish Kíli that had finally emerged toward the end of that journey had been a façade, purposely forced into place to alleviate the worry of his kin. The Kíli who’d appeared after the mess with Frár had been more serious, often solitary, and haunted by some unknown worry that he stubbornly refused to confess, even when cajoled upon by Fíli. Even his marriage and newborn son, while lightening the prince’s darkness, had not been able to completely return him to the dwarf they’d once known. 

When the hobbits had come, Thorin and Dis had both seized upon the slim, fading hope that they might fully revive the prankster, but it had been evident before long that what was shown was again forced. The hobbits’ visit had presented its own complications, Thorin noted sourly, gaze slipping to a small knot of several dwarrow, a contrasting pair of brunette and blonde heads in the center, the sun glinting off of the mithril, silver, and gold beads capping the braids of the ruling line of Durin.  
 _  
Six Months Prior- Erebor_

_Thorin paused at the door to the old council chambers adjoining the royal apartments, which had been redone as an office for his nephews. There was no murmur of voices, surprising given the urgency of the message summoning him here. Fíli and Kíli, it seemed, were always at work these days, proving to be the exceptional rulers that he and Dis had seen hinted at throughout their childhoods- unlike their still somewhat wild younger sibling, Therin. That one was proving to be a constant source of trouble, mostly because he had an appalling habit of acting before thinking things through, making Therin seem the youngest of Dis’ children when, by pure age, that spot went to Kíli. Perhaps because of that, more than sheer convenience, Therin was referenced as the youngest prince of Durin by almost all, as he actually was by birth order. Now, Thorin could only wonder what trouble he might have been up to that had caused his older brothers to summon their uncle, for anything that urgent almost always had to do with the black haired font of impulsivity.  
With a sigh, he pushed open the door, only to find himself staring at an empty room, a cup on the floor rocking gently in a puddle of water the sole sign of recent occupation. Puzzled, Thorin glanced back at the guard who stood as still as a statue next to the entrance. It was no one he knew well, but the young dwarf had made no move to stop the king from entering, and neither of the princes was allowed to leave their chambers without at least one guard in attendance, so one of the two must be within. _

_As Thorin had warned, the threat from the cult known as the Amrad Azaghálh had been far from ended with the death of Frár. That first spring had found Thorin at the head of an army that included representatives of all seven dwarrow kingdoms riding to retake the Iron Hills. There had been a few short, but bloody, skirmishes with dark dwarrow and their allies, mostly Men from the East and orcs, but overall the retaking had been easy. Too easy. All had been wary, looking for an enemy that stayed in the shadows waiting to pounce, though none believed it to be Fain. That unworthy and his henchmen had all fled before they reached the inner halls, showing themselves at last as the cowards Dwalin had long ago named them._

_Reassured that the Iron Hills was safe and rebuilding under a handpicked representative of Erebor, the king had returned to the Lonely Mountain only to find that there had been another attempt on the lives of his older two nephews. Kíli had come through without a scratch, but Fíli had suffered a head wound that kept him bed bound for almost a week, and had necessitated their older kin’s insistence upon guards even within the mountain. It had also redoubled his resolve to deal with the cult before thinking about Khazad-dûm._

_Four more years of warfare had resulted, cleansing the sacred halls where Durin first awoke beneath Mount Gundabad, and razing the filth of Goblintown so the High Pass was once more secure for travelers, but still they encountered only handfuls of cultists, leaving most of the fighting to those remnants of Sauron’s and Saruman’s forces that allied with them. Then, eight years of silence- no attacks, no rumors being spread, nothing! Except that last fall a band of Men with more courage than brains had ventured into the pit of Moria lured by whispers of the mithril waiting there… and vanished into the darkness. When word finally reached Thorin, he knew with a dread certainty where his enemies hid, and so now he planned._

_With a bitter twist to his lips, he allowed the door to swing shut, moving further in. To his right, Fíli’s desk was covered in scrolls and pieces of parchment with half-illegible notes scrawled upon them, while Kili’s stood empty save for a map… of Khazad-dûm? With a frown, the king leaned over to more closely examine the old parchment, noting that someone had laid a piece of onionskin paper over the top with notes upon it in Kíli’s neat hand. The rustle of the heavy tapestry on the back wall being pushed aside alerted the king that he was no longer alone as a young dwarrowdam in a rich blue velvet dress entered from the concealed door to the inner apartments. The young one started as Thorin straightened, allowing the door to swing closed._

_“Thorin! I did not expect you here!”_

_There were suspicious rings of red around her eyes and she sniffed a little, hand clutching her skirt as if to stop the automatic reach for a handkerchief._

_“Vestri. What’s wrong, child?”_

_The older of Glóin’s twin daughters, and the wife of the younger Prince under the Mountain, tried to force a smile, but it wavered, disappearing almost instantly. Thorin crossed to her, opening his arms in invitation, and his marriage-niece collapsed into the embrace, shoulders shaking slightly as the tears renewed._

_“I’m being silly. Senata says he’ll be fine, it was just a bad fall and a bit of a fever, but-“_

_Thorin stiffened at the muffled words, drawing the younger dwarf back so that he could meet her startlingly bright green eyes, the only way he had to tell the twins his nephews had married apart, for her sister bore the intense Durin blue irises of her father’s paternal heritage._

_“What happened?”_

_She sighed, sinking onto the low settee he led her to, and shook her head._

_“Merry and Pippin came to visit, and Kíli drew them into a discussion on Khazad-dûm using an old map Nori’s son, Ori, found buried in the archives. The boys were playing on the floor, but grew bored when everyone seemed more interested in, and I quote, ‘Dumb, boring, stinky drawings so bad that Kala could do better’, and left.”_

_The king did not bother hiding his smile at that, knowing the attention span of seven year olds was limited at best. That the two boys, cousins born on the same day and closer than most brothers, with the notable exception of their fathers, had stayed as long as they had was probably only due to the novelty of being around their hobbit visitors. Nor was the comparison to the ‘artwork’ produced by Fíli’s two year old daughter all that surprising, as most maps of Khazad-dûm Thorin had seen made about as much sense as her scribbling, no matter what the child claimed they were. He could not, however, bury the foreboding that nagged._

_“And?”_

_“And… the boys didn’t pick up their toys. Pippin stepped on one, lost his balance, and sent Kíli sprawling. He landed-“_

_He didn’t hear anything further, as he was already through the door to the apartments and down the corridor added to allow the needed expansion for the children eight years ago. Both doors leading to the princes’ private quarters were ajar, meaning that the divider between the two was pushed back to make one massive room, as it often was during the day, so Thorin simply entered the nearest, though it led to Fíli’s side. At the other end of the room, he could see his oldest nephew and sister seated near a large bed, speaking quietly. There was no sign of his other marriage-niece, Vestri’s younger sister, Austri, so she must be with the children._

_The fact that the brothers had actually married sisters still made the king chuckle, along with most of the rest of the mountain. No one, not even Glóin, had expected anything to come of his long-ago needling of the princes about a potential double marriage with his daughters, but that was exactly what had happened. Austri and Fíli had been mutually smitten almost as soon as they were introduced, though it had not been nearly so smooth between Vestri and Kíli. If the first couple had been in the throes of a bardic tale with love at first sight, the other two had shared instant mutual animosity that stopped just short of all-out war._

_For months, the rooms of their families were filled with mutterings, each less than flattering about the other, whenever the two were forced to meet. Unfortunately, with their siblings’ courtship, that had been often._

_‘Kíli is too stupid and stubborn to see past the too small nose on his face.’ ‘Vestri is a spoiled brat.’ ‘All Kíli talks about is archery and the mines.’ ‘She’s more in love with gems and gold then any living being.’ ‘He can’t grow a proper beard and his hair looks like a sparrow’s nest.’ ‘She cuts sharper with her tongue than a mithril blade.’_

_Finally, the two had found themselves waiting alone in a room while their siblings had each run into delay after delay. Of course, had Fíli and Austri realized what was happening, they’d have sprinted back rather than risk the bloodshed likely to result with their siblings left alone with one another, but instead the other two had found themselves stuck with one another for over two hours. What was said in the room had never been revealed, but Kíli had emerged with a black eye and a hopelessly smitten grin upon his face while Vestri’s braids were in a tangled mess and her eyes only for the archer. Their families had sighed, shook their heads, and announced not one, but two pledgings, to rejoicing throughout the mountain._

_“Fíli?”_

_Voice low, the king made his way to his nephews’ side, perching carefully on the side of the bed where Kíli lay, head pillowed on his arms and back covered by a cloth with the melting remains of ice atop it. The older prince smiled faintly, face weary, but showing none of the anxiety he’d dreaded seeing._

_“He finally stopped fighting the herbs and went to sleep a few minutes ago, but his back is very swollen. He landed right on the scar. Vestri went to see about getting more ice from the peak.”_

_“What happened?”_

_The king questioned again, absently smoothing the wild dark brown hair from Kíli’s forehead as he felt the low heat radiating from the younger prince. It was not a high fever, but still worrying given that the younger dwarf had been prone to such things since returning to life. The reply, however, did not come from the blonde._

_“Smashed… Smaug!”_

_Fíli let out a half amused, half exasperated snort at his brother’s slurred speech, brown eyes hazy with whatever drug he’d been given fighting to open and then stay that way. Dis silently held up a wooden dragon, perhaps a foot and a half long, made for his grand-nephews by Bofur, one wing and the tail cracked and hanging at an odd angle while the head was gone completely. Fíli took the offending item from his mother as Thorin winced before turning his attention back to his ailing kin._

_“Shhh… Go back to sleep, Kíli, I merely wished to check on you.”_

_Kíli made an inarticulate noise of protest that had his brother laughing softly as he tweaked his sibling’s nose. Unfocused eyes threatened to cross as the brunette tried to follow the offending finger, one hand batting sloppily at it._

_“I swear, little brother, if you didn’t have bad luck, you’d have none at all!”_

_“Bett’r’n fobbit heet.”_

_All three could not help laughing now, Dis rolling her eyes as she moved to replace the ice and wet cloth that her son’s nonsensical protest had dislodged. Thorin grimaced at the sight of swollen flesh, already starting to bruise around the massive scar where an assassin’s mithril blade had originally ended Kili’s life. For Thorin, the sight was a constant reminder of the sacrifice his poor choices and lust for gold had demanded, and not from him, but from those dearest to him. His sister, however, must have misunderstood the frown, for she stood back up defiantly, hands on her hips._

_“He’s never been all that coherent when given pain-killers, you know that!”_

_“Aye.” The king agreed, “That’s why he fights taking them so. The pain must have been severe for him to consent, but a back injury and pain droughts do not explain the fever.”_

_“U-uncle…rock. Old and crumbling, waiting. Need me.”_

_Kíli’s mumbles drifted off as he stilled, breathing returning to the slow pattern of sleep as tension left his body. Thorin’s eyes met those of his eldest nephew, making the other look away, hands suddenly clenched in his lap upon the brightly painted toy until the wood of the tail cracked the rest of the way through to drop upon the floor._

_“Fíli.” The younger dwarf glanced up at the command in his uncle’s voice. “I hope I’m wrong in my understanding of what he sought to tell me, why the two of you summoned me here, but I fear I’m not.”_

_The unhappiness upon Fíli’s countenance was all the answer he truly needed. When they had returned to life almost fourteen years ago, Kíli had bonded with the Arkenstone, lending him its healing powers, but also making him one with the mountain, feeling the rock at times as if it were a part of him. Those abilities had come with a price, however, as each time the stone had exerted a greater amount of power to heal, prophesize, or reach across the distance to the mountain, it had sent that energy coursing through the young dwarrow, leaving him with a fever. The more power, the higher the fever, to the point where it had twice come close to killing the young prince. Thankfully, once Kíli had healed from the final confrontation with Frár, the fevers had disappeared as minimal energy was needed to read the stone of his home, and the Heart of the Mountain had remained otherwise quiescent. Until now, it seemed._

_“He could see the condition of the stairs the hobbits were describing in Khazad-dûm, though he said it was like pushing through sand to do so.”_

Thorin snorted at the memory, eyes lingering upon his nephews, all three of them, before returning to the dark, jagged hole that had once been the mighty eastern gates of the ancient city. No, he had not liked what Kíli had said at all, though he’d also been unable to argue against the prince’s value to the expedition. To know what tunnels dead ended, or were likely to collapse before they did so, taking valuable lives with them? Or were a trap created by the cult, waiting for a dwarrow to walk into range? He could not turn down Kíli’s request to once more join his uncle, no matter how badly he wished to. And of course, where Kíli went, Fíli would be found nowhere else. In their absence, Austri and Vestri had found themselves elevated to co-regency, with the able advice and assistance of Dis, Vili, and their own father, Glóin.

A disturbance near the left edge of the army drew his attention, his greater height upon the rise allowing him to see a large body of horses bearing down upon them. The figures riding them were obscured beneath the dust cloud raised by their passage, but he could see enough to know that they were not dwarrow, nor expected, even if they only numbered perhaps thirty.

“Kíli, Fíli, Therin! Bofur, Dwalin, Nast and Kifir! With me!”

His roar cut through the stamp of hooves and low murmur of voices, making the heads of those called snap around before bringing their ponies onto a path to join him as he headed toward their uninvited guests. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Balan and Mablung heading out of their small contingent of Men and nodded gratefully when they caught his eye, silently asking if he wished their presence. If this was a group bent upon mischief, Thorin intended to let them meet a united front of multiple peoples, backed by an army. Dwalin, Bofur, and Nast, predictably enough, made sure to place themselves between any potential threat and the royals, though only Dwalin as yet had weapons to hand. The strangers drew to a halt several paces from the dwarrow line, hands held out in a sign of peaceful intent as Thorin got his first good look- and swore.

Graceful, lithe, _elven…_


	3. Diplomacy, Elven Style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin and the elves attempt to get along... sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

3\. Diplomacy, Elven Style

It might have descended immediately into threats and drawn weapons had three familiar figures not come to the fore, only one of whom was elven. Prince Legolas, late of Mirkwood, now of the elven colony in Ithilien, rode forward, two ponies pacing him with Gimli and his wife, Thorin’s niece, Lis, on them.

“Legolas.” 

Thorin inclined his head in the respectful meeting of equals, ignoring the grumbles coming from the troops nearest him, who were not of Erebor, but of the Broadbeams and Firebeards who’d settled in the north of the Blue Mountains.

“Lord Durin. I am pleased we were able to catch up with you.”

“Catch up? I had not known you were invited!” 

The somewhat heated exclamation burst from his left before the king could reply and Thorin cast a quelling glare at his youngest nephew, but the lad ignored him, locking eyes with his twin. Behind them, there was a rumble of agreement from some of the other dwarrow, quickly silenced, no doubt by a glowering Dwalin. Few indeed were the dwarrow hearty enough, or fool-hearty, as the case may be, to take on the legendary Warmaster of Erebor! 

Young Therin, however, was solely focused upon his own goals, ignoring what was taking place nearby, a bad habit Thorin had yet to break him of. Instead, the prince was doing his best to sit proud and regal upon his pony, who, it seemed, took a dim view of such proceedings, shying so that Therin had to clutch at the reins to keep from ending up in the dirt even as he tried to sound commanding and mature to his sister. Had they not had the elven audience, Thorin might have burst into laughter at the lad.

"I had not thought to need one."

Gimli rebuked his marriage-brother sharply, already glowering, though there was a sadness to the expression that told Thorin more was at work here then the dwarf warrior looking for a fight. Unless angry, the younger dwarf almost always had a smile on his face, a cheerfulness that was noticeably lacking at the moment. By the restless stir on his other side, the king could tell that Fíli and Kíli had also noted the unusual behavior, but sitting in the middle of a confrontation was hardly the place to quiz the other about it.

"You don't."

Thorin told him, including Legolas in the nod and getting a satisfied grunt in return, but Therin was now after another target.

“And you, sister, what are you doing here? An army is no place for a dwarrowdam without great need.”

Lis merely raised an eyebrow, one hand upon her husband’s arm to prevent the fiery red-head from raging further at Therin’s haughty attitude. The girl had the same level head on her shoulders as Dis, though thankfully without quite so much of the temper!

“I ride home with my husband, brother, and met Legolas upon the road. We were summoned to Erebor. Svass succumbed to the fading three weeks ago.” A deep sadness overtook her countenance, golden hair ruffling gently in the breeze as tears came to her eyes. “It was very quick, only three days after onset.”

“What?” Kili’s cry was sharp with worry. “Why did Ves or Austri not send word? Fíli and I would have returned immediately if we’d known their mother was dying!”

Thorin bowed his head briefly in respectful silence, others following suit as the news spread in whispers down the ranks. Many knew and counted Glóin a friend, grieving at the thought of that great dwarf losing the love of his life. The fading eventually took all dwarrow who did not die of accident, wounds, or one of the rare diseases to affect their race. It was a quick process, usually mere days or a few weeks passing between the onset and death, the dwarf enjoying good health even in old age until then. Only the call of the birds and the rush of the wind from the heights was heard for several long moments, and then Thorin and the princes raised their heads, Fíli giving voice to the thoughts running through his uncle’s mind.

“If it was so fast, how did you two get from Aglarond to Erebor in time?”

Gimli cleared his throat, voice rougher than normal as he blinked back tears of his own. Though he’d always put up a stoic front, those closest to Gimli knew the warrior concealed a tender heart, joys and sorrows raging through him as strongly as his temper. The wound of losing his mother would be a long time in healing, but had he still been in the south when it happened…

“The eagles. They said that they owed a debt to our families, and bore us to Erebor in partial repayment.” His dark eyes lit on the older princes, reassuring. “My sisters forbade anyone from sending you word, saying that you had other responsibilities that must take precedence, a duty to our people. Vili and Dis made sure they were looked after as you would have done had you been there, brothers.”

At Thorin’s raised eyebrow, Fíli smiled wanly, fiddling with his reins as Kíli fidgeted as if he wished to make a gesture to silence his brother, but dared not.

“Last winter, the stones told Kíli of an eaglet, newly fledged, who’d misjudged the currents around the peak and smashed into the rocks, injuring a wing. Since he’d not told his older, and wiser, kin what he’d meant to try, there were none around to rescue him. Our wives and I went up, bringing what aid we could to keep him comfortable until word could be sent. We’d no idea the young one was Gwaihir’s grandson!”

The king grunted, shaking his head at them as Kili’s head ducked, face flushing a bit. No doubt it had been he, and not the princesses, who insisted that they go up when he could not, unable to bear the thought of a fellow thinking creature alone and in pain.

“And your elven escort?”

The growl came from Dwalin, who, while tolerating Legolas, still had less use for elves then even Thorin. Predictably enough, Gimli stepped back, allowing the elves to answer for themselves, but it was not the prince who spoke, a stir among the other riders allowing another to pass. Thorin could do little beyond allow his face to harden into an expressionless mask as Lord Celeborn made his way forward, giving the king and his heirs a polite incline of the head.

“It came to my attention that you sought allies to aid in reclaiming Khazad-dûm, Lord Durin. I bring elves from not only my own forest, but also from Imladris and from the colony in Ithilien. All are used to working with those not of our own kind, and will follow your direction, though Prince Legolas will serve as their leader under that until such time as he must accompany Lord Gimli and Lady Lis south, when my grandsons will take over.”

The twin dark-haired sons of Elrond rode one step forward, gracefully inclining their heads at their grandsire’s words. For some reason he could not fathom, the sight of the two actually reassured the dwarrow king slightly, though he allowed no alteration to his expression, having grown to at least tolerate the duo upon his encounters with them. Normally, he would have greeted those two and Legolas with at least basic courtesy, but now he ignored them completely.

Instead, Thorin’s chin came up as he kept his gaze solely on Celeborn, allowing him to look at the other out the tops of his eyes as he refused to crane his neck like an undignified child, cursing the elf’s subtle power play in not dismounting his horse to put them upon an equal level. Despite his friendship with others of the Durins, Celeborn seemed intent upon intimidating him, and Thorin had no intention of allowing it to work. Even as he eyed the taller being, he gave a snort of contempt, making several of the elves close behind their lord flush with anger.

"Your words speak of friendship and alliance, but your actions betray you, telling only of contempt. As you said, it was no secret that I gathered arms to retake Khazad-dûm, nor was our army moving so swiftly that you could not easily intercept us before we stood upon the threshold. What value should I place upon those assembled in haste as mere show?"

While several of the elves nearest, including Legolas and the twins, blanched, others sneered, shaking their heads at the dwarrow, the army behind Thorin bristling in its turn. Hands tightened on weaponry, the air rife with violence about to explode. The dwarf king, however, watched only his adversary, noting the barest hint of triumph reflected in steel grey eyes. His suspicions confirmed, Thorin straightened, allowing a hint of mocking smile to grace his lips.

"A better question, perhaps, would be 'What will you do if I actually accept your offer as opposed to the angry and insulting dismissal you thought to provoke?'"

The elf lord showed no reaction, but it was not he that Thorin was testing at the moment. There was a gasp from one of the twins; Thorin thought it was Elrohir, while Elladan gave his grandfather a wounded and slightly angry glare. Legolas just rolled his eyes, giving Gimli a reassuring nod when his friend put a restraining hand on the elf's arm. So, the young ones had not known of or not seen the games being played, good. That made the decision Thorin was faced with much easier, though he must tread the path carefully, his own side now needing to be subtly handled.

“I did not ask for aid from the elves for a purpose, Lord Celeborn. There are many among my army who still recall the actions of Thranduil and the suffering that resulted." He did not feel the need to mention that he was at the head of that list. "With relations at last progressing between our peoples, I did not wish to chance an unfortunate incident with those whose blood will be running hot and have weapons to hand.”

It was Legolas who elected to respond this time, a slight smile upon his lips, as if he found the dwarf king’s careful language amusing. For that matter, he probably did, having grown up in the somewhat convoluted and treacherous environment of Thranduil's court and elvish politics. The prince of the Greenwood, Thorin had noted, often displayed a slightly odd sense of humor for an elf, or he and Gimli would have come to open blows upon leaving Rivendell with the Fellowship, despite Gandalf.

“We will stay amongst the Men, Thorin, but I believe you will have need of us. How did you intend to cross the expanse missing from the Bridge? You have seen my agility with such things, and I assure you, I am not the most agile of my kin.”

The king's proud head came up, eyeing the prince.

"That point is a telling one, Legolas, but this is not a decision to be made lightly."

"If you fear the depth of our commitment, Lord Thorin, you need not. We have many a score to settle with the orcs and goblins hiding in the depths of your ancient realm, and we will confine our animosity to them."

One of the two sons of Elrond spoke for the first time, sending his elder another purse-lipped glare as he did so. Thorin waved that away, having had no doubt as history clearly recorded the reason for that hatred. Losing kin to that filth had always been one of the cornerstones upon which the tentative relations between elf and dwarf rested, as having a common foe proved an excellent equalizer. He was not surprised to feel a hand touch his arm, and to see Fíli’s serious blue eyes regarding him with words unspoken within. Another hand, and he was amused to note that Kíli had moved at the same time as his older brother, with the ever opinionated Therin hovering behind, just out of reach.

"I take it that the three of you have thoughts upon this matter? Excuse us for a moment."

With that, the king turned to deal with the other side of this tangled knot, wishing he dared to solve it with a swipe of Orcrist's gleaming blade.


	4. The Last Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kili gives some good advice and Bilbo proves just how good of a burglar he really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

4\. The Last Alliance

Kíli surveyed the small party of elves seeking to join them, only paying partial attention to Legolas’ words to his uncle as his eyes lit upon those of the twin sons of Elrond with a smile of genuine welcome. In the years since the marriage of their sister and the departure of their father, the two had become the lords of Rivendell, but the dwarf knew that they were more often to be found abroad. While Bilbo yet dwelt in Erebor, the twin elves had become frequent visitors, and Kíli could not help the small smile that played at his lips upon the thought of the venerable old hobbit who’d passed away peacefully in his sleep almost thirteen years ago now. Their esteemed burglar had lived up to his name once again, though in this instance, it had not been gems or a dragon’s secrets he filched, but the ancient animosity between races.

Despite the example given in the friendship of Legolas and Gimli, the relations between the restored Greenwood and Erebor had been fraught with misunderstandings and deliberate slights, going nowhere. That is, until Bilbo Baggins decided to meddle! He had started by seeking permission to have Elrohir and Elladan visit, two elves with whom the dwarrow had never quarreled, knowing that the only thing Durin’s Folk were known for beyond their stubbornness was their sense of honor. And given the Company's atrocious behavior when in Rivendell so long ago, he certainly felt that there was a debt to be paid!

Bilbo also knew that the dwarrow would be unable to deny such a simple, albeit uncomfortable, request upon the part of their hobbit; that odd being who had once left his cozy, peaceful home and faced death unprepared upon the slim hope that he could aid the dwarrow in retaking their lost one. So the twin elves had been duly invited and warily welcomed with strained politeness by the inhabitants of the mountain, both sides viewing it as a distasteful situation to be endured for the sake of a white haired, fragile hobbit.

Bilbo, in his turn, had taken shameless advantage of this fact, making the twins accompany him upon his daily wanderings through the markets and artisans’ workshops, exposing both sides to the other while his presence also forced them to be upon their best behavior. When Elrohir had tried to object, the cunning hobbit had gotten a familiar twinkle in his eyes, blandly remarking that in his ‘feeble condition’, surely none would look askance upon friends aiding his steps, even if they happened to be elves! 

Soon, everyone involved could not help looking beyond race to find at least acceptance, if not a few outright friendships, before the young lords of Imladris took their leave. This, in turn, had made those negotiating with Thranduil’s people a tiny bit more open to the elven viewpoint, as they had learned that not all elves were automatically arrogant fools, inching both sides ever so slightly closer to that hard first step toward true reconciliation, even if it took another hundred years. When an amazed Kíli had cornered the hobbit, asking for the secret to such an astonishing turnabout, Bilbo had smiled perkily.

_“Once you realize that someone is just as bewildered by you as you are by them, it is hard to sustain the hate, Kíli. All I did was give both sides faces and names that were not ‘dwarf’ and ‘elf’. Of course, I would not recommend such an approach with any of Sauron’s evil get, but… Well, you get the idea.”_

With their burglar’s words ringing in his ears, the younger Prince under the Mountain placed a hand upon his uncle’s arm just as Fíli did the same from the other side. Amusement flashed in the deep blue eyes that looked first to him, then to his older brother, and finally settled upon Therin, who had half-raised a hand, being too far from his uncle to touch him as his brothers had.

“I take it the three of you have thoughts upon this matter? Excuse us for a moment.”

The last was directed at the elves, several of whom seemed a bit disgruntled with the greeting they had received, but Lord Celeborn simply inclined his head, pulling the large horse he rode back along with Legolas. At a curt gesture from the king, Gimli and Lis joined their kin, the younger warrior sighing in relief at the easy acceptance Thorin showed. No doubt he remembered, as Kíli did, the gruff King-in-exile who would accept advice from very few and criticism from none. Thorin, however, had changed with his resurrection, the experience having shoved his own failings into his face rather dramatically.

Therin, true to his impetuous nature, was the first to speak, making Kíli sigh, holding in his own annoyance. He just did not understand the other, seeing a reckless youth where a prince should stand, and one that was most apt to think of himself first, which baffled Kíli all the more given Bilbo’s influence upon his younger brother’s formative years. It had long been a source of friction between the two, one which Fíli was aware of, though Kíli had said nothing to anyone else besides Bilbo. The old hobbit had only shrugged with a heavy sigh, saying that Therin took after his uncle in much more than looks, and the young dwarf prince had a very difficult transition, going from the mountain to the Shire and then back again.

“I’d trust Legolas with my life, uncle, but I am wary of aid offered by any other, especially when we did not ask it of them. If someone offers me wine when I am not thirsty and knows of my dislike for it, should I thank them for the courtesy? Or take it as the insult it is meant to be? Send them away!”

“Is that what Bilbo would have said to such a sentiment? We did not ask for aid from the Shire, either, and yet they offered. Was that, too, meant as an insult?”

The brunette could not help needling the other, knowing of the regard Therin held for his foster-uncle and the other hobbits who had opened their land to two young dwarrow in fear for their lives. Sure enough, the youngest heir’s face flushed ruby, blue eyes flashing cold anger as they narrowed at his sibling. 

“That’s not the same, and you know it, Kíli! The hobbits know nothing of politics and the games played among those- the other races.”

“Those of the higher races, is that not what you meant to say, brother? You, who lived with hobbits for almost thirty years, and still you underestimate them! If they knew nothing of what was outside their lands, the Thain, Mayor and Master would not have been made councilors to the King!”

Kíli did not bother to hide the disdain, knowing too many among the dwarrow who shared such an attitude. Even he had been somewhat guilty of it when he had first ridden through that little land and realized that the hobbits felt no need to train with weapons or keep more than a haphazard border patrol. He had been scornful, making disparaging remarks to Fíli until the other had grown so exasperated that he had berated his younger sibling outside the round green door of their burglar, causing Kíli to be less than initially polite. It had taken the incident with the trolls and the confrontation with Azog to see that loving peace and isolation did not necessarily make one soft or stupid.

“Those three are different! They-“

“Are as astute as many in the Shire, had you bothered to listen, Therin.” 

Another voice broke into their discussion as a small figure cloaked in the grey-green of the elves pushed into the tight knot of dwarrow, though he was clearly not of the Firstborn. Fíli, Thorin, and Gimli exchanged glances, while Lis, Kíli noted, copied him, rolling her own blue-green eyes as he moved aside to allow Frodo Baggins to ride his pony up beside the fuming youngest prince. 

“Bilbo would be falling over himself to rebuke you if he’d heard such nonsense from your mouth!”

Though smaller and thinner than most dwarrow, there was a presence to the still-young looking hobbit that reminded those of the company strongly of Bilbo, belying his supposed age. Kíli well remembered the horror some had expressed when it was learned that their burglar was only fifty, over twenty years younger than even Ori, who had only just been counted as fully adult in the Blue Mountains. For Frodo, who had gained the Ring at thirty-three and stayed that way, only slowly showing signs of age over the last fourteen years since the Ring’s destruction, and more due to the injuries and horrors he had lived through than any natural process, it was the shocking force of personality that was rarely displayed that served notice that all was not as it seemed with this small being. He was most definitely not the child his delicate features made him appear at first glance.   
Just now, there was fire in the Ringbearer’s blue eyes, hands on his hips, and a familiar hard, chiding look to his face, as one would regard a child caught stealing sweets. Kíli found himself bowing over his mount’s neck to conceal a smirk, knowing that it would do nothing to improve relations with his younger brother should the other catch sight of it. As he snuck a look around, however, it became clear that several of the others felt no such need, openly showing their amusement as the hobbit all but tapped his foot, his dwarrow playmate of childhood wilting under his friend’s disapproval.

“Frodo, you know I didn’t mean-“

“Enough, Therin!” 

Thorin’s quick rebuke made Kíli flinch momentarily, for it had not been that many years since such a tone was directed at him. Indeed, he had caught such a verbal stinging several times even after returning to life, before illness, the weight of memories, and duty had burned much of the former mischief out of him. The weight of guilt and cares that could never be shared sat especially heavy.

Fíli, at least, had noted the change and did not seem to wholly approve of it, often playing small pranks on his younger sibling, which Kíli had felt honor-bound to retaliate for. Such mischief, however, no longer embodied the fervor and creativity he had once had, feeling more as if he were obliged to go through the motions for Fíli’s sake, even when aided and abetted by his wife and young Kifir, who had become his aid. Still, they were not entirely without the ability to distract and amuse, just never for long. Such lighthearted moments, and those he spent with his kin in front of the fire of their rooms on quiet winter evenings, were the closest he had felt to what he had known before the summons to return to Erebor had taken the brothers from their home so long ago. 

Some part of him had noted the growing maturity with sadness, knowing that he could not return to the child he had once been, with his only cares being winning the praise of uncle and tutors, or aiding his brother as they traveled to trade and hunt in the areas nearest their home. Thorin had been right, by that fire long before, to rebuke him as knowing nothing of the world, and there were days he wished he could return to that innocence, even as he railed at just that in Therin, and Fíli watched him with ever more worried eyes. He longed to lift that concern from his golden sibling, but he dared not, knowing that there were some secrets best left buried, even from his beloved brother.

“Kíli!”

This time the cutting call was aimed at him, and he flushed before regaining his composure and raising an eyebrow at his king, silently reminding the other that it was not a young foolish dwarfling now seated before him.   
That one of the ruling duo of Erebor was due equal respect, not the harsh, unthinking censure of Thorin Oakenshield to his often cloudy-headed nephew who had insisted upon coming with on an adventure though he was barely of age. That, in itself, had been a struggle, for both to find an acceptable balance, and one that they occasionally still had trouble with.

“I apologize, my king, I was preoccupied. What may I do for you?”

His uncle pursed his lips at the formal tone, then rolled his own eyes at Kili’s innocent, overly helpful smile, a short nod conceding his nephew’s point.

“I asked what your opinion on this matter might be. Fíli and Gimli both state that we should accept their aid as a token of the tentative alliance between our peoples, while Dwalin and Therin are both against, citing the trouble it might raise within the army. I would have your thoughts upon the matter before deciding, especially as they seem so deep as to pull you from awareness of your surroundings.”

That last was a backhanded rebuke, but for once, Kíli felt no need to justify himself or flush in shame. He would never have allowed his guard to drop were they not among a ring of trusted warriors, where no enemy could hope to approach, even from hiding, and Thorin knew it, having overseen that part of his nephews’ training himself. Brown eyes flicked to the elves, some of whom now bore scowls for being made to wait in the hot sun, but when his gaze met that of Legolas, the elven prince gave his counterpart a slow, solemn nod, the red-head beside him tilting up her chin, as if daring him to make a comment about her presence. Finally, he returned his attention to those before him, deliberately not looking to either of his brothers, though he doubted his words would catch Fíli by surprise.

“We should accept what aid may come, Uncle. How many times did it take the diverse skills of both Legolas and Gimli to keep they and their companions’ whole? And how would it have changed the course of history had they not been willing to set aside their prejudices so? Yes, there will be tensions upon both sides, but once the dwarrow of Khazad-dûm called elves friend, and I believe it is time to renew that relationship. Are we truly so bound by the more recent past that we would doom ourselves to repeat it?”

“It was that one’s father who bound us in the dungeons for weeks! My cell was close enough to hear the taunts his sister spat at you daily, Kíli! And what about the insult that Celeborn pays us? Does that, too, go unanswered?”

Dwalin’s fists had clenched, undoubtedly imagining the too slender neck of a certain elven princess between them, and Kíli smiled sadly. The memories of those dark days alone in a cell no longer had the power to distress him, though he would never be comfortable around elves he did not know. Nor would the larger dwarf’s disapproval wither his confidence, his expression holding steady in the face of the other’s glare until Dwalin just waved a hand at him in disgust. Truthfully, Kíli had found that the elves were like all the other free peoples of Middle Earth, with those who were arrogant, angry, or just plain mean.

“And for that, we are to condemn them all? If you look, Legolas has brought only those from his colony who were with him when they last visited Erebor, and we had no fights erupting in the halls then. We remember the past bitterly because they refused aid, and now we seek to turn it away when they actually offer? Do not give Thranduil and Celeborn further cause to sneer at us, Dwalin.”

He had addressed his remarks to the large warrior, but out of the corner of his eye, the prince took note of the thoughtful look upon Bofur’s face, and the slight smile upon Thorin’s. Maybe, just maybe, he had actually gotten his points across in such a way that his king would find merit in them. Finally, his uncle caught his eye, and there was nothing of the disdainful dismissal he had long seen there, only respect.

“You make a careful assessment, Kíli. We will accept their aid, with the proviso that any who cannot handle our presence will be dismissed at our discretion. Now, for the other problem; I will speak with Legolas, but we will need some dwarrow willing to work with them besides Gimli. I leave that task to the two of you, as you can be trusted not to start a fight at the first misunderstanding.”

The king gave a nod to the red head, who rolled his eyes and Kíli pursed his lips, eyes already sliding over the closest ranks, searching for particular faces. He had won the argument, but had a feeling he’d set himself up for an impossible task in return.


	5. Of Dwarrow and Elves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kili contemplates the past and future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

5\. Of Dwarrow and Elves

It was many long hours later when Kíli was finally able to sink onto the log next to his uncle and siblings, heartened to see Elladan, Elrohir, and Legolas also sharing their fire, though the three elves had salads and lembas instead of the thick, meaty stew that he could see his brothers digging into. It had been decided upon not to enter Khazad-dûm this day, instead staying outside the walls to ensure that their army would be ready upon the morrow, especially given their newest additions. 

Tasked with ensuring the integration of their unexpected guests into the armies, which meant that they were properly assigned given their skills, it had not been an easy night for the prince. To his shock, none the elves had elected to return to Rivendell with Celeborn except his personal guard, despite the distasteful glances some had thrown at dwarrow and men alike. With that quick fix no longer an option, Gimli and Kíli had settled for discretely jotting down the names of those showing such prejudices for inclusion in the list of those who would maintain the perimeter guard and supply lines outside the mountains. 

Unfortunately, both of them had been so focused upon the elven part of the equation that they had overlooked the ‘plus dwarrow’ part, and quickly learned that it equaled a brawl! Gimli had turned scarlet at the sight, and after barking a command to Legolas to stay with Kíli, had waded in, his right hook almost instantly persuading several of the more pugnacious on both sides to subtract themselves by the simple expedient of leaving the area. That, at least, had ended the incident with nothing more severe than several black eyes and bloody noses, but Kíli had been far from reassured. There was no need to make his uncle’s concerns come to fruition so quickly because he’d once more forgotten to think! Chastened, the prince had decided to speak quietly and individually with all those dwarrow affected before the day was through. Consequently, the moon had long been up when he was at last able to find his way to the small campsite set aside for Thorin.

Wordlessly, the young dwarf with him, Bofur’s son Kifir, retrieved two bowls heaped with stew that had been keeping warm next to the fire, giving one to his prince before settling himself at Kili’s feet. The prince grimaced, picking at the food absently as his mind replayed the events of the day. He’d also been working with the planners whenever he had a spare moment these last few hours, including Dwalin, laying out the best way to approach the entrance to the kingdom, reading the stone to see if any surprises awaited inside the first guardroom. Unlike with Erebor, however, where he could sense the changes in the mountain with just the brush of fingertips along a rock wall, telling the shape of the stone here was akin to peering through a morning fog to sight upon the deer he hunted long ago in Ered Luin; it took intense concentration and some small amount of luck. Such efforts were also quicker to sap his strength, leaving him exhausted, hot, and cranky.

“Kíli…” Fíli’s softly chiding tone broke through, making the brunette realize he had been mindlessly pushing his spoon around a rapidly cooling meal. “You should eat, little brother. Tomorrow won’t be easy on any of us.”

Kíli was quick to catch himself before he snapped in response, tolerating the blonde’s hand on his forehead with only a low growl in his throat. He hated how he had to be looked after, worried over, now, but he also knew that his family had cause.

“Fever?”

Thorin’s voice rumbled in the darkness, low and gentle, emotions few indeed associated with the rough, somewhat irritable king, though they were apt to manifest publically much more often now than before the quest. Kíli and Fíli were not the only ones irrevocably changed by what had happened; Thorin’s change was all for the better, at least as far as Kíli was concerned, making the king more open, caring, and patient, though his temper had not vanished, just was held under a tighter rein.

Kili’s annoyed “I’m fine!” was overridden by his brother’s quick nod, to which the brunette rolled his eyes in exasperation, making a show of shoveling in a large helping of stew, though he almost gagged. Of course he had a bloody fever, when didn’t he when using the abilities gifted him by the Arkenstone outside the Lonely Mountain? It was apt to make him irritable, and a bit uncomfortable, but was a small price for the benefit of knowing the layout and dangers inherent in the rooms they would be occupying, allowing the warriors to focus upon mortal enemies instead of the very rock itself. Desperately seeking a source of conversation other than his health, or lack thereof, his brown gaze lit upon the twin elves seated across from him. 

“So, did the two of you ever meet any of the other Durins?”

Thorin’s eyebrows shot up at the question, but then the king shrugged, turning his attention back to his meal as the others, even Dwalin, waited for a response with held breath.

“We did.” A smile played at Elrohir’s lips as the dwarrow all leaned unconsciously forward while he made a deliberate show of slowly chewing a bite of his salad before a growl from Dwalin convinced him he had best hastily swallow and continue. “My brother and I actually lived within Khazad-dûm for a short time when we were very young.”

“It was before Arwen was born.” His sibling added. “There had been hints of a traitor within our ranks, patrols ambushed in what should have been safe areas, vital supplies missing, and things like that, and Father feared for our safety.”

“Durin IV offered the shelter of his halls, and Father wasn’t likely to refuse, since the next closest refuge was in Lothlorien with Grandfather and Grandmother. That was even closer to Mordor, which really made Father nervous, even with the power Grandmother wielded.”

“Besides, he didn’t know who to trust among our own.”

“But he trusted Durin,”

“…Even when others called him a fool.”

As the conversational ball bounced without warning between the twins, for the first time Kíli began to appreciate Thorin’s irritation when he and Fíli did such things. His head had whipped around from one to the other so many times that he was beginning to feel dizzy!

“Did Elrond find the culprit?”

Lis asked softly from where she leaned against her husband.

“Yes.” Elladan’s face fell, eyes sad as he stared into the darkness beyond them. “It was an elf who had been captured out on patrol, tortured by the orcs. I think it was the first time that many among us realized that just because Sauron had been defeated, the Ring taken, the war was not necessarily won.”

The silence stretched as all picked up upon the meaning of those words, memories of their own flooding in. For Kíli, it was the madness in the eyes of his own brother as he forced the younger through a twisted forest after having flung a dagger at their own mother. He could not help the shudder that passed through him as he set the still half full bowl to the side, food holding no interest at all for him now. A hand, warm and solid, rested on his shoulder before giving it a squeeze, and he managed a faint smile for his uncle before the older dwarf disappeared into the darkness beyond their fire.

“But what was it like to live in Khazad-dûm? Was it as grand as the stories say it was?”

The breathless innocence of that question broke the darkness, drawing a genuine chuckle from Kíli as he fondly looked down upon the young dwarf resting at his feet, silently blessing Bofur for allowing the boy to come. Kifir was by far the youngest dwarrow with the army, not even of age yet, but he had already proven himself indispensable to his prince. 

In the weeks following their return to Erebor, when Kíli once again struggled to recover from both injury and illness, Kifir had taken to spending his days with the prince, willingly doing anything that the other needed him to. Once Kíli was on his feet again, he had chased the younger dwarf off, grateful for all he had done, but unwilling to monopolize the time when he should be running and playing like any other child, though Kifir had continued to spend a few hours each week with the prince. 

That changed permanently the year after their return to the mountain. Kíli, determined to prove that he was not too young and inexperienced for the position he now held, as he knew some older dwarrow felt, had been working hard to aid in the redesign of their principle iron mine, ignoring the twinges his nerves had been sending all day. His luck failed on one of the staircases back to the royal apartments, sending him tumbling down the stone while several miners, Bifur, and Fíli all watched in horror, helpless to stop his fall. Dis later confided to her son what had been discussed during those dark hours while they waited for him to wake, to know if once again he would be alright.

_“He can’t continue pushing so hard. He’s not sleeping some nights because he’s in too much pain, but when I try to help, he brushes me off!”_

_Fíli was close to tears, though it was a toss-up as to whether it was from frustration, fear, or anger. Next to him, Austri tightly clutched his hand, the other running soothingly up and down her love’s back in an attempt to provide at least some comfort._

_“Kili’s always been stubborn, just like my brother was, we’ve known that since he was born.” Vili smiled slightly, “We can’t force him to take the pain draughts or stop doing his duty, but we could find someone to aid him, be his legs.”_

_“He won’t accept that.”_

_Thorin’s deep rumble filled the room, making the unconscious dwarf in the bed stir slightly. All of them held their breath, but Kíli settled back into stillness with only a soft mewl of pain, eyes never opening._

_“I can do it. He let me before, last year, and I like to be of help. Please, Father? Lord Thorin?”_

_Truthfully, the adults in the room had completely forgotten about Bofur’s older son, who had been with his father when the summons came saying the younger ruling prince had suffered an accident. Just turned forty-three, the young dwarf was at an age where he was trying different crafts and occupations, looking for one that would suit him, at which time his parents would negotiate a twenty year apprenticeship with his master, as was traditional. Kifir, however, had seemed unable to settle, constantly coming back to aiding his father with his job as principle advisor to the two princes. Now, the others’ eyes lit up at the potential solution, waiting to hear what Bofur had to say at the notion. The older dwarf, in turn, looked hard at his son, drawing the youngster up to stand in front of him, his father’s hands on his shoulders._

_“Are you certain this is what you want, Kifir? If you say yes, it will be the same as a regular apprenticeship, you will be learning laws and governing. What about your wood carving?”_

_Kifir squarely met his father’s eyes, a maturity showing there that belied his age._

_“I like to carve, but it is more of a distraction at the end of the day than a true life’s work, Father. I miss being able to work with Prince Kíli, and I found that the laws and things fascinated me. I’ve been reading some of the history of our kingdom on my own and the Lore Keeper says I have a remarkable understanding of it for one so young. Please, let me do this?”_

_All Bofur could do was nod, eyes filled with tears at this unexpected turn, and the thought of his little one so grown up and responsible. A hand clapped down hard on the boy’s shoulder, and he found himself looking up into the face of Erebor’s Warmaster, the redoubtable Master Dwalin._

_“I’d best set up a time with Nast and Nori for your lessons, then, lad.”_

_“Lessons?”_

_“Aye, if you’re to be the prince’s aid, it also means you’ll be his last defense should there be another assassination attempt. Best you know how to keep him and yourself alive.”_

Kíli had not been at all pleased, at first, with the idea of someone, even Kifir, with him constantly, but it soon became so natural that the prince could not imagine life any other way. Consequently, he was doubly grateful to see the eager eyes of his aid shining as he asked the breathless question of the elf twins, because Bofur would have been within his rights as parent to demand that Kifir be left behind in Erebor. The twins both laughed, but before either could begin to answer, a voice, deep and confident with an odd lilting accent, answered from behind them.

“I only hope that one day you may see it as even a quarter of what it once was, young one. Though we had to build a rock barrier around Durin’s Falls and the spring. This one,” A blunt finger tapped Elladan on the head as the elf’s face tinged pink, ducking slightly to hide his embarrassment. “Kept falling in whenever his minder’s back was turned. I knew elves had an unhealthy fondness for forests, but I did not know it extended to attempting to become part fish!”

Even as all assembled there smiled at the verbal jab, except Elladan, a chill passed through them, making even the blazing fire seem momentarily cold as the features of the dwarf who had spoken flickered and morphed in the shadows. Another step, however, and the stranger became Thorin, who stumbled as if abruptly dizzy, one hand resting on Elladan’s shoulder for balance. As soon as he was aware of what he was doing, the hand was yanked back as if scorched, and the king clomped over to settle down with a scowl and a full mug.

“What?!”

There was a long pause as no one answered, Kili’s eyes still wide with shock as he searched his uncle’s face for any sign of the other who had been standing in his place moments before. Finally, Elrohir cleared his throat, voice barely above a whisper.

“We had not known that the memories of the other Durins were so strong within you, Lord Thorin.”

Kíli could not help feeling some small relief at the elf’s statement, as it implied they, at least, had seen something like this before. Beside him, Fíli let out a long held breath, relaxing slightly as well. At least until Thorin frowned at all of them, stiffening.

“I’m not certain what you mean by that.”

“You just- You were- “

Therin’s spluttering was abruptly cut off by a well-aimed elbow from Lis, making Kíli duck his head to avoid misplaced laughter even as he tried to quell his hysteria at what had just occurred. Only twice before had he witnessed his uncle speaking as though one of the other Durins, and both times Thorin had been in a half-sleeping, trance-like state, which the king had remembered only as a dream. Kíli had not had the courage or strength to deal with it at the time, avoiding the entire issue by politely listening to his uncle relate his ‘dream’. Afterward, there had been other concerns, and somehow a past incident had never been a priority. Fortunately, his uncle seemed inclined to allow the odd behavior of his companions to pass unremarked, instead raising a pointed eyebrow at his youngest nephew when Therin could not seem to hold back a yawn.

“You should seek your bedroll, Therin. We enter our kingdom tomorrow, and our people will be looking to you and me to lead them. You must be prepared to assume your birthright as both a prince of Durin and my heir.”

For a moment, it looked as though Therin was going to fight the directive, a scowl crossing his features, but Lis said something quietly in his ear that made the prince roll his eyes before turning to his uncle with a pleasant, though forced, ‘Good night.’ The deliberately heavy stomp of his feet, however, was an action Kíli would have expected from his seven year old son, not his ninety-one year old brother. The sigh that followed from Thorin was heavy, and exasperated, making Fíli, Dwalin, and Bofur all chuckle.

“It was once Kíli and I you so despaired of, uncle, but look at how we have turned out. He’ll mature with time and the realities of what we face retaking Khazad-dûm, just as we did on the journey to Erebor.”

Kíli bit his lip at some rather unflattering comments that he was sorely tempted to blurt out, but held his peace. Across from them, Thorin only shook his head, turning to the elves and Dwalin to discuss the plan for the morning and leaving Kíli to his thoughts. The prince knew that his brother had been very sheltered, not even facing the harsh lessons of life in exile as he and Fíli did, but something about Therin’s attitude would not stop bothering him. The boy was due for some cave-ins; he only begged Mahal that the lessons taught by them would not come to his youngest sibling at the same high cost as his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next : Thorin enters Khazad-dum...


	6. Where Lanterns Once Burned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin enters Khazad-dum and discovers that walking in Durin's footsteps will not be so easy...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

6\. Where Lanterns Burned

The first steps of Lord Durin Returned into his ancient kingdom were less than majestic; he staggered, hands grabbing to hold him upright as his head seemed to explode internally into a whirlwind. Around the king, the stone walls illuminated by flickering torches seemed to ripple as if alive, one moment appearing roughhewn and uncompleted, the next covered in opulent velvet banners, then morphing to be sheathed in the gleam of copper. 

Voices rang in his ears as ghostly figures faded in and out of sight, hammer and chisel expertly wielded pounding a counter beat to the cacophony of languages. The rough shouts of dwarrow sounded from all sides, to be answered by the light baritone of a Man, unseen, or the musical lilt of elves giving way to the high, almost childlike patter of hobbits, all overridden by the harsh gutturals of orcs and goblins. Thorin hit his knees hard, hands reaching to try to block some of the noise even as he squeezed eyes shut, fighting to connect with what was real, where in time he truly was, who he was…

Hands, hard as stone and just as real, were upon his shoulders, digging in harshly enough to leave bruises as someone demanded that he open his eyes, hot breath upon the king’s face. The command was gruff, but the voice was one he should know, that should be almost as familiar as his own. 

“Thorin! Answer me!”

It was the name that snapped the king finally from the memories long enough to open his eyes, latching onto the face inches from his own with a stare that greedily drank in every tattoo and scar. The king brought his hands up to lightly press into the other’s forearms, but he could not yet bring himself to speak, too many other voices and faces flickering in the periphery of his vision. The other scowled, giving his king another shake with a low growl of frustration before turning his focus to someone behind Thorin.

“Help me get him up and out of here!”

“N-no.” 

Dwalin. It was Dwalin, his oldest friend and shield brother, who held him upright, and he was Thorin Oakenshield, Durin VII. Slowly, the dwarf forced away the memories, staring hard at the walls behind his friend until they stayed the bare stone, slightly scarred from fighting, and the skeletons remained, no longer changing into guards or workers. Finally, he tightened his hand slightly on Dwalin’s arm, meeting the other’s searching gaze squarely, the words of the elven twins from the night before running through his mind.

“I am well. I’d not expected the memories to be so strong.”

Dwalin did not look at all happy, but he nodded, lending a strong arm when Thorin sought to stand, aided on the other side by Fíli. There were not many whom Thorin had told the full truth to- that each reincarnation of Durin possessed the memories of those who had come before, and that occasionally those bits of history would be more real to him than the present he was in. It had been a direct assault upon Thorin’s core identity that had taken years to fully come to terms with, and he thought he had learned to control when it came upon him. Apparently, he was wrong. 

Stumbling slightly, the king went through the respectfully parted guards to run a hand along the wall, trying to look casual as he used the touch to not only support wavering steps, but ground himself in this time. Dwalin and his three nephews were almost tripping over each other in their attempts to hover close by. Thorin's voice was soft, barely carrying to his companions, as he put words to the chaos in his mind. 

"I see our kin, so long ago, hewing and shaping these very stones, but it overlaps with so many other memories, those who have been greeted here, both friend and foe that it is hard to sort out."

"This is the first place you've been where all six of the other Durins have walked."

There was a sense of awe to Kili's tone that brought a slight smile to his uncle's face, who had often been the one to have a lap full of dwarfling on cold winter nights, the tiny brunette begging for more stories of Durin even as he struggled to keep sagging eyes open so that his uncle or mother would not banish him to bed instead. Fíli, who had been learning of their history in lessons with Balin, had rolled his eyes and continued to play by the fire, uninterested, but Kíli had snuggled in, content and secure in a way he was at few other times. The memories lightened his mood momentarily before darkening again as he fingered a scar out of the rock, most likely caused by a weapon missing its target.

"Bofur, sort through any armor or weapons for dwarrow make, and set them aside. Discard the filth, see if our smiths can use it for base stock. Dwalin, find some volunteers to remove the orc and goblin bodies beyond the valley and burn them. Fíli, if any of the remains are dwarrow, see if you can find anything upon them to aid in identification and see to proper treatment until they can be entombed with honor. Kíli, I want you and Therin to accompany the team to the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, you have command." Thorin turned to pin Legolas with a glare, easy enough when the elf was taller than all around him. "No one goes across without Kili's approval, no exceptions!"

The king had definitely not forgotten the elf's scramble across an ancient and potentially very unstable bridge in Mirkwood forest! The tall prince, however, merely raised an eyebrow at him, clearly unrepentant. Thorin grit his teeth, but chose not to press the issue, transferring his scowl to Kíli, who grimaced, but nodded.

Knowing of the damage done by the battle between Gandalf and the Balrog, Thorin had spent several weeks during the winter exploring potential solutions with Erebor's finest engineers. They had decided that the answer to not only that issue, but all the gaps in the deteriorating corridors could best be dealt with by the construction of temporary bridges. Several teams had been created with grappling hooks to throw across. It was then Kili's job to read the stone and ensure that the hook was secure before allowing the most agile to cross with more ropes, then place a wooden span across. 

In this, at least, the inclusion of the elves was an aid unlooked for, as few could so easily cross a rope with as little risk as their fleet-footed warriors. Also, elven archers would take their places alongside those of the dwarrow, with bows of longer range and keen eyes even in the dim light. That there were dwarrow who could match them with a bow at all had been a shock to some, but not all that surprising given that it was the favored weapon of their younger ruling prince. 

Kíli had taken to holding impromptu lessons with any dwarrow who cared to appear on the range one afternoon a week. Both Fíli and Thorin had been concerned, at first, remembering only too well the many times other dwarflings had taunted the brunette for his choice of weapon, but it seemed that the mountain was ready to embrace change, even if that meant the use of an ‘elven’ bow. That it allowed the prince to practice with a weapon that would not unduly strain his back and legs as the footwork and stances involved with swords would was quietly noted, but never spoken aloud.

Tasks assigned, the king finally allowed himself the luxury of sinking to an out of the way piece of rock, the memories too strong to deny any longer.  
 _  
“I, Durin, Lord of Khazad-dûm, welcome the sons of my six brothers to my kingdom! Enter!”_

_With a dramatic flourish of the king’s hands, dwarrow pulled the cloth that had covered the openings high on the mountain’s sides, bathing the room in light with their lord at the center. In front of him, the first representatives of the other six dwarrow kingdoms gazed around in awe, making Durin beam in pride at his people’s accomplishments._

_It had not even been two hundred years since he led them from Gundabad, from the place of his awakening, to start chipping away at the back of a rude rock cave. Less than a single dwarf’s lifespan, and there was now a network of thirty rooms sheltering all from the winter weather, heated by the blaze of multiple forges working the iron pulled from two mines. Soon, there would be a true city within, one that any of his brothers would envy, yet it was not in Durin’s make-up to dream so small. No, even the model in front of him, lit by the sun coming from above, was but a small portion of the kingdom he meant to build here, a city to hold not hundreds of dwarrow, but thousands! The greatest wealth of Middle Earth lay waiting to be discovered here, to forge the finest of weapons, the most beautiful of ornaments!_

_Yes, indeed, he had only just begun!_

_Still grinning broadly enough to make the muscles in his face actually ache, he turned then to his taller guest, sunlight highlighting the elf's dark hair with glints of purplish-blue, the same color as the armor he wore._

_"Well?" Eöl, who, Durin had noted, made a habit of tweaking others to provoke them, simply smirked, making the dwarrow king roll his eyes, smile dimming just a bit. "Are you going to answer me, or stand there being as infuriating as those pain in the neck cousins of yours settling in the forests beyond?"_

_If the tall Teleri elf wished to play games, well, never let it be said that Durin backed down from any competition! Besides, it was just plain entertaining to rile the solitary elf who had wandered Middle Earth early on, making his living by his smithing. And such work it was, too! The king could not help admiring the armor that the other wore, a black metal that the dwarf actually did not recognize, though it was clearly very flexible. Eöl bristled in mock-outrage, as the king knew he would. There was no love lost between the Nandor or Dana elves and the Teleri, though neither were all that forthcoming as to why._

_"No kin of mine! Just for that, I might not share the secret of the armor I wear with you after all!"_

_"Hmm..." Durin forced himself to remain still, not showing any hint of the curiosity that was all but eating him alive. "Maybe I shouldn't say anything about this, then."_

_Opening his fist, the king displayed the small medallion he had just retrieved from his pocket, white metal gleaming with its own inner light. Mithril, they had named it, a pure silver like unto no other metal in all of Middle Earth. Durin chuckled as the elf's eyes widened fractionally before he caught himself and gave the dwarf a rueful grin._

_"Well, now that we've thoroughly provoked one another, shall we join the others? Your vassals seem uninclined to wait upon their king's pleasure."_

_Durin merely grunted, waving the elf through the smaller secondary guard room, with its huge metal doors, and into the grand reception room beyond, where tables groaning under their loads of food were rapidly filling with dwarrow. The king waved several dwarrow who had finally noted the presence of their monarch back to their meal before turning to the elf._

_"Never stand between dwarrow and the first mug of ale and leg of meat; no respect, the lot of them."_

_*****************_

_“Why do you bring me such a being?”_

_Durin V boomed out, hearing his deep bass rumbling in echoes from the far corners of the chamber and making the quaking captive in his guard’s hold let out an undignified squawk. Gone were the days when this chamber served as a grand reception room, copper covered walls refracting the light to bath the finest of Khazad craftsmanship displayed there in its glow. Now, the only items adorning the walls were racks of well-used weapons, kept razor sharp should they need to stand between their people and an invader, be it orc, man, or dragon. The destruction of Sauron before his iron tower had not brought the peace that the Last Alliance had so desperately sought, for greed had been too deeply lodged in some to ever stop grasping for what was not theirs._

_“A thief, lord, caught attempting to steal from the back of our wagons.”_

_Durin grunted at that. The wagons that ran between the main kingdom and their settlements in the Grey Mountains were encountering more and more trouble, both from bandits and the drakes that inhabited the nearby Withered Heath, though only two of those monsters had been seen in the last one hundred years. Now, a full guard company of fifty dwarrow went with each wagon, where only twenty years ago, ten would have sufficed. If this continued, they might have no choice but to abandon the northern halls, at least for the foreseeable future. To be faced with those attempting to steal before the wagons had even been fully loaded and were still upon the doorstep of the city, however, was a new problem._

_The culprit had evidently gotten over his fright, glaring defiantly at the king. It was a creature nearly a head shorter than most dwarrow, and bearded, though it did not have the length and elegance of one grown by those of Durin’s own clan. Scruffy clothing of the style favored by the children of Gondor and the unwashed knots of hair spoke of a hard life, as did large, wary brown eyes, though this was no child of Man. It could not be, for the feet of the creature were either out of all proportion to its size or it favored absurdly made foot-wear! The king swept his eyes up and down the thing, allowing a bit of a sneer to curl his lips._

_“What is this, then? Half of a goblin, a hob-goblin? Or some new twisting of the race of Men?”_

_The guard laughed heartily at their king’s sally, but the creature bristled, drawing himself up as if attempting some form of intimidation, though the results were more comic than threatening._

_“I am not of Men; disgusting, loud brutes tramping through where they don’t belong! And I most certainly am not a goblin!”_

_For all its raggedy appearance, the words were precise, with none of the lazy slur of the uneducated. As if suddenly aware that he should not have spoken, the captive clamped his mouth shut with an exaggerated snap, glaring at the king as if such a lapse were his fault. Durin slowly circled him one more time before stopping and sticking his face in very close, making the small being flinch._

_“And what did our half of something attempt to steal, exactly?”_

_The king hoped to hear that it had been merely food, for times had been hard throughout Middle Earth, and he would be able to go lightly on the little creature, maybe even send him away with some journey bread. If it had not been for the shoes and beard, he would have sworn this was one of the Harfoots, the shy race that lived to their north, or one of their cousins, the Fallohides. Neither of those, however, would have been forced to steal from Durin’s Folk to feed their kin, as they were the main source of the dwarrow's own freshly grown food. They, in turn, received forged goods and protection, should they need it, from the dwarrow, a fair trade upon both sides._

_“This silver horn, my lord, meant as a gift for the peoples of the far north.”_

_Durin’s heart sank at the words, even as he accepted the finely wrought item. It was some of the best work of his smiths, with images of horsemen from mouth to tip, and would make a fine statement in the halls of the north, encouraging those somewhat odd Men to purchase dwarrow-made goods. The craftsmanship by itself made it worth a small dragon’s hoard, without the enchantment that had been embedded within that would stir the hearts of allies while quelling those of their foes. Hand tightening around the horn, he whirled back on the thief, making the small being squawk in fright once more._

_“It will go easier for you if you tell me your name and race!”_

_Defiant brown eyes stared back at him, mouth clammed shut in a parody of a stubborn dwarfling refusing to eat his greens. The king sighed, then snorted in disgust, any sympathy the other might have won now gone._

_“Well, you are certainly only half of something. An ‘It’, then. Guards, take this… half-it… this…Hob-It…to the cells. Make sure he is fed, and dunk him in a trough once or twice along the way. There is no need to dirty our dungeons just because our guest does not know the use of soap and water.”_   


  


The derisive nickname for the small being rang over and over in Thorin’s ears as he jolted back to the present to find a puzzled Frodo Baggins standing near, one hand upon his arm. Twisting around, the king grabbed the startled hobbit’s arm, making light blue eyes widen in shocked alarm. Before Frodo could speak, Thorin overrode him, some of the urgency and disquiet felt by the elder Durin leaching into his stance and voice.

“What do you know of the history of your race? You did not always live in the Shire!”

“I- No, we did not.” Frodo relaxed slightly at the apparently innocuous question, gaining the slightly abstract look the dwarf knew well from being around Bilbo when he was searching his memory for some tidbit or other read long ago. “There aren’t any actual records from before the founding of the Shire, but tradition holds that our people originally lived somewhere in the East, near the Anduin. There were three groups, somewhat different from one another- the Fallohides, Harfoots, and Stoors. Why?”

Thorin barely registered the return question, mind latching onto the final name. 

“Stoors? What were they like?”

For some reason, the hobbit paled, then flushed, fidgeting until Thorin allowed him to pull his arm loose. When he spoke, it was while looking at his own feet, not at the king.

“Gandalf once said that they were fisher folk, living near the Gladden Fields on the banks of the Anduin.”

“And did they grow beards? And wear shoes?”

Frodo finally glanced up in startlement at that, blinking rapidly as if he had something caught in his eye, and Thorin pretended not to see the glint of tears, finally realizing that his questions had somehow upset the other. The hobbit heaved a deep breath, seeming to settle, and smiled slightly.

“The oldest stories said that they did, yes. They were the ancestors of the Brandybucks and others who settled in Buckland, which is why most of the rest of the Shire considers them very odd. Thorin-“

Once more, the dwarf cut him off.

“And the name ‘hobbit’? Where did that come from?”

Now the other shook his head, shrugging, though blue eyes bore into the dwarf king intently, assessing.

“I’ve no idea, though Merry and King Eomer both think that it came from the Rohirrim’s name for us, ‘Hoblyta’ or hole-dwellers. Thorin… should I find Fíli or Kíli? You don’t seem yourself, and you were muttering ‘hobbit’ over and over. That’s why I’m here, one of the others thought you were calling for me.”

Thorin could not help the bitter twist to his lips at that, remembering too well when ‘hobbit’ was one of the nicer names he had given Bilbo. On a bad day, it would have been a derisive ‘halfling’ instead, especially as the gold sickness grew and the burglar had the temerity to question his actions. Feeling the weight of the past, he laid a gentle hand on Frodo’s arm, deeply missing the white-haired old hobbit who was reflected so clearly in many of this one’s mannerisms.

“No, Master Baggins, I am fine. The memories provoked here were simply… unexpected. How are you doing, truly? Being here once more cannot be easy, which is why I’d not thought to ask you before you approached me about coming with.”

Few things could truly shock Thorin anymore, but the words of this hobbit one cold evening last winter had certainly been one of them, offering to ride here once more! True, this had not been the most traumatic part of that already legendary journey for Frodo, but it could not have been easy, either, especially when he witnessed the fall of Gandalf. As much as Thorin and the old wizard had butted heads throughout the journey to Erebor, he had also been conscious of and respected the other’s power. He would not have believed anything short of Sauron himself could take on the Istari and not fall immediately, even Smaug, had Gandalf felt himself at liberty to deal personally with the dragon. The wizard could not, and Thorin had known as much before ever setting out, though he had stayed silent about it to his companions, uncertain if any would follow had they known in Bilbo’s cozy hole that the dragon would be theirs to deal with. Or, more accurately, Bilbo’s.

Reminded once more of the debt he owed his friend, the king drew himself away from his own thoughts long enough to make his own assessment of his companion, pleased with what he saw. Whatever had so disturbed Bilbo’s nephew earlier, he showed no sign of it now, cheeks glowing a healthy pink and blue eyes bright. While the Arkenstone had healed the wounds inflicted on Frodo by the blade of the Witch-king and the sting of Shelob at the same time it healed Kíli, Fíli, and Thorin, the hobbit still bore psychological scars so deep that his health was occasionally affected, leaving them to worry as much about him as they did about Kíli.

It was for that reason, Bilbo had confided to Thorin as he neared his death that he believed Frodo had been unable to settle once more in the Shire after the war. Frodo somehow felt that he had been tainted by his contact with the Ring, unworthy of staying within such innocence as the Shire. Why he had rejected the elves' offer of healing in the Undying Lands, Bilbo did not know, asking Thorin to watch over his nephew as much as possible after the older hobbit was gone. Frodo looked down, one hand worrying the stub of his missing finger, as the king had noted he so often did when lost in the darker memories. Reaching over, Thorin stilled the hands, making Frodo raise his head, the words so softly spoken the king could not be certain he meant them to be heard.

"So many of the memories of the journey are fragmented, twisted by the - by It... The nightmares..." He finally focused on Thorin's face. "Aragorn recommended that I try to... confront them? Replace them? I don't know. I just-"

A hand held up cut off the hobbit's partially introspective ramble.

"I understand as much as I need to. Just know that should it become too much, you’ve only to speak to me. We will provide escort to wherever you wish.”

The other flushed, head dropping as the fingers on his right hand resumed rubbing that horrible scar on his left, the king making no move to stop him this time, though he wished to. He was not Frodo’s uncle, no matter Bilbo’s dying wishes, and could never be to this self-contained young hobbit who thought so many more things than were ever said aloud or even hinted upon on his face. 

Hobbits, Thorin had learned the hard way, did not display their inner emotions as readily as dwarrow did, especially the darker ones, instead allowing them to stew silently inside for days or even years before finally bursting forth through the cracks. The forwardness Bilbo had picked up during his travels with the dwarrow was just one more mark against him when he returned to the Shire, though Thorin would have dearly loved to see the faces of some of that stuffy, insular land when the old hobbit so famously insulted them at his last birthday party there! Patiently, he waited out his younger companion, and Frodo obligingly bit his lip, finally bursting out words with an intensity and self-criticism that might have shocked those who only saw the dignified, shy hero.

“I do not know why you all insist upon that! I am no noble or great hero, to be fussed over and escorted everywhere, just a simple hobbit who had the bad luck to inherent a bit of cursed jewelry!”

Thorin could not help the laugh that erupted at the other’s self-effacement, knowing that some of it was honest puzzlement, though he quickly turned it into a series of coughs covered by his hand to hide the accompanying smile. This attracted the attention of his youngest and oldest nephews, who joined the king and flushing hobbit at his indulgent wave. Fíli raised an eyebrow at the two as they joined them, one hand casually resting upon Therin’s shoulder in the same unconscious intimacy that the golden prince had always shown the brother he had been raised with. At least those two were getting along, the king noted absently, not bothering to question why Therin was there instead of with Kíli as he had ordered, mind still upon the hobbit at his side. Finally regaining control he gestured at Frodo, raising his own eyebrow at the newcomers.

“This one claims to be but a simple hobbit, and cannot understand the fuss raised by whomever’s court he is in when he wishes to leave.”

Therin started to chuckle, throwing his arm around the hobbit even as Fíli rolled his eyes.

“I don’t believe there is such a thing as ‘just a hobbit.’ Bilbo often claimed the same, and look what he accomplished!”

“Besides,” Therin added with a malicious grin at his slightly shorter friend. “Bilbo taught us that the definition of the word ‘hero’ was one who had the courage to face adversity and the compassion to do it for unselfish reasons. Last I looked, walking into Mordor with just Sam certainly qualifies… well, that, or completely insane.”

“And that warrants having guards everywhere? I rather think it proves that I can handle myself, instead!”

“Walk yourself into unending trouble, you mean.” The young prince snorted. “I think Aragorn started the escorts in self-defense, so he wouldn’t have to be constantly riding off to get you out of trouble! After all, who was it that decided a picnic in the middle of the Barrow Downs was a good idea? Or throwing a rock into the hornet’s nest above a sleeping Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’ head? Or sneaking off by himself to walk to Mordor even though he had to ask Gandalf which direction to turn going out of Rivendell? Or the time-“

“I never should have allowed you to read my book, you’re worse than Pippin!” Frodo cut the other off in exasperation, giving his childhood playmate a shove while he was at it. “Stupid dwarf!”

Thorin winced, unsure of how his dark-haired nephew would react to that given the statements the boy had made the day before, but Therin just grinned, shoving right back.

“Silly hobbit!”


	7. Bridge to the Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some of the history of Durin's Bridge is explored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

7\. Bridge to the Abyss

“This way, my lords.”

Thorin was amused, though he was careful not to allow it to show. Having a dwarf lead them was unnecessary, as he could probably find his way through much of the ancient realm in pitch darkness without a qualm, but he let it pass. There would be a time, probably soon, when he would have to allow it to be widely known that he held the memories of his previous incarnations, but it would keep for now. Let his people get used to not only being within the city, which was already making many jump at shadows, but also working with elves and men, not to mention the magic imbued in the very stones here.

Walking the diagonal hallway from the gate room, Thorin ran his fingers along one hall, memories, or at least pieces of them, darting through his mind. So much history, here, forgotten and waiting to be rediscovered – triumphs and tragedies, death and new life, friends and enemies, it set his head spinning just to think of it. How many of the old tales and legends would prove true? Two more small rooms, and then the mountain opened up before them, ceiling so high that their lanterns could not find its height, and an abyss that plunged into endless darkness at their feet. 

The bridge, as Frodo and other members of the Fellowship had warned, was broken; a thin span of rock jutting out into nowhere, the other side too far for even an elf to leap. Beside him, the king heard a soft noise of distress from the hobbit. Gimli and Legolas were quick to step to his side before any others could react, speaking soothing words too soft for the king to hear. To Thorin’s other hand, Fíli stood gaping in astonishment at the sight before him, one hand immediately going to Kili’s shoulder as the brunette hung back, almost seeming reluctant to re-enter the room. 

Not that Thorin blamed him. There was a feeling about this place; a sadness, and distaste that was hard to fathom unless one knew of the events that had taken place here. The fall of an Istari in a fight with one of the oldest, and strongest, of Morgoth’s allies could not help but imbue the very stone with an echo of sorrow. The oldest prince ran a hesitant hand over the wall nearest to him, walking up to the very edge of the split in the floor, where it ran off into the mountain.

“This is impressive. I wonder-"

“Fíli, I need you over here.”

Kíli cut his brother off abruptly, waving from where he stood by the foot of the span, looking as if he would rather be anywhere else, even Mirkwood. One hand held his walking stick so tightly that the knuckles were white, the wood shaking slightly with the strain of the weight he was pressing on it, while the other wrapped around his torso, as someone would who was trying very hard not to be ill. The prince’s face was pale, with only the barest hint of two pink fever spots on his cheeks giving it any life, though his eyes were steady, determined.

Not for the first time, Thorin felt a stirring of unease about his decision to allow his older two nephews to be here, but brown eyes met his own with a silent warning not to say anything. The king pursed his lips, but reluctantly nodded, glad the other at least had the sense to request his older brother’s presence when he determined just how disturbing reading the stone where such evil walked might be. The Kíli who had first rode from the Blue Mountains on the quest for Erebor would have simply, and mulishly, plunged in, determined to do for himself no matter the cost, never realizing that such actions did nothing to prove his adulthood to the others.

Now, the brunette prince knelt to touch the stone of the ancient causeway, hand visibly trembling as he did so, and Thorin almost called to him to stop. As many times as he had now witnessed Kili’s abilities, it still seemed somewhat uncanny, even for a dwarf. Usually, it took several minutes of concentration, the others gathered staying respectfully, though skeptically on the part of the men, silent. This time, however, the prince almost instantly jerked backward with a startled cry, only his older brother’s quick reflexes keeping him from tumbling onto his backside. Kíli did not seem aware of anyone else, shaking his hand as if it burned, body trembling and eyes locked on the bridge remnants. Thorin was next to them from one breath to the next, hand reaching for his younger nephew’s shoulder.

“Kíli? What is it?”

He breathed, though he need not have asked after getting a good look at the other dwarf’s face. It was pinched and white, breathing rapid, and eyes horror-filled. Thorin knew with a sinking certainty what the other must have become a silent witness to. Over the other prince’s head, Fíli’s blue gaze sought out that of his uncle, worried and questioning. Thorin swallowed hard.

“The Balrog were Maia, Fíli. Servants of the Valar, even as Gandalf was, and Sauron. Such power – and evil – cannot walk fully revealed without leaving a permanent echo in the very stones.”

It was Durin I’s knowledge that he now passed on, and he could feel the dwarrow Father’s anger and disgust at the defiling of his home, powerful enough to give test to even Thorin’s legendary control. That one had faced such creatures head on, and the thought of one within Khazad-dûm… Instead, he focused on Kíli lest he lose himself to the past once more, relaxing slightly as the prince’s eyes at last seemed to take on awareness of his surroundings. He should never have allowed his nephew in here, never asked this of him! Why did the knowledge of the other Durins always seem to come too late? The prince fumbled momentarily, then tried to force himself to his feet.

“Kíli, you shouldn’t-“

A quick wave of the hand, almost cutting the air in its sharpness, stopped Fíli’s inevitable protest. The brunette turned to look about him, as if searching for something.

“I need a piece of rock larger than a fist.”

His voice was a bit hoarse, but steady, even as his request sent the others scrambling. Balan, the ranger, was the first to step forward, holding out a bit of broken wall with the elaborate scrollwork still intact.

“Will this do?”

He asked the prince softly, getting a nod as Kíli took the thing and tossed it with one smooth movement. All eyes followed the rock as it sailed through the air in a gentle arc to land on the bridge where Frodo, Legolas, and Gimli remembered last seeing Gandalf the Grey. Instead of simply bouncing off the bridge, however, the stone it landed on cracked with the sound of a firework exploding and crumbled to fall into the darkness below. Kili’s whole body shuddered once more under his hand before the prince finally turned to look at him.

“The whole bridge is unstable, a trap waiting for the unwary. We’ll need to use the full rope bridge, instead.”

“One of us could have been on that!”

A voice breathed from behind them, setting off low, earnest muttering among the waiting dwarrow, elves and men. Thorin grimaced, knowing that there would be no moving his nephew from the mountain now, but resigned to it. Kíli had never been one to let go of something once he had determined to do it, a stubbornness inherent in the line of Durin that Thorin had frequent reason to curse! 

"This room looks as if it were built before the abyss was here."

The comment from the brunette drew the attention of several of the dwarrow nearest them, including Bofur, who ran one hand along the wall, much as Fíli had earlier.

"You're right, lad. Thorin?"

The king swallowed against a mouth gone suddenly bone dry, memories filling him at that slight prompt, images that provoked a past horror of his own.  
 _  
Second Age, 1421_

_"My Lord! The gates are destroyed, the creature is inside the mountain!"_

_Durin II cursed as he jerked around at the message, fury and impatience rising in equal measure, heedless of the inarticulate noise of protest from his grandson, who had been buckling the rerebraces on his grandfather's upper arms._

_"The archers?"_

_The king demanded, impatience radiating from him, though there were none who were quite so adapt at all the buckles and pieces as the younger dwarf. The runner, anonymous in his barbute helm, shook his head, still gasping for breath after his run up the guard stair._

_"Th-the...they bounce off the creature's hide as if it were mithril!"_

_"But it does not have wings?"_

_His grandson, already marked by irrefutable signs as Durin III, demanded as he finally managed to grab hold of his king’s flailing hand long enough to wrestle it into the last bit of mithril armor. The dwarf lord grunted, not quite sure why it mattered if the beast had wings, as it would not find itself able to fly far within these walls. Of more concern to him, at least, was whether this was a fire drake, or one of its lesser kin._

_“Any sign of breathing fire?”_

_He quickly overrode his heir’s words, absently wondering once more if the boy had addled his brain from being hit too many times in training. The messenger was quick to shake his head, relief evident._

_“Neither.”_

_“Then maybe it’s not truly a dragon?”_

_The prince asked as he handed him the glittering mithril ax that matched the armor he wore, both handed down from the original Durin, and said only to be used or worn by those of the name lest they betray the bearer so presumptuous as to assume he could walk in place of the king._

_“Not all dragons have wings.” The king grunted, rolling his eyes, “Nor will most weapons penetrate their scales unless you strike the underbelly.” Turning to his heir, he raised a pointed eyebrow as his helm was set into place. “That is, unless you’d rather try for the inside of the mouth.”_

_“Ah, no.”_

_Durin III returned drily, hefting his own weapon before waving his grandfather to proceed him, which was all the invitation that the older dwarf needed to start a sprint toward the site of the battle. Behind the king came the thunder of armor as more warriors fell in behind, scrambling to keep up in their much heavier steel._

_For too many years now, Khazad-dûm had been a kingdom under siege, the vile, twisted creatures who had once made up Morgoth’s armies taking delight in striking at the dwarrow and their stone fortress, but this was the first time they had seen a dragon this far to the south. Normally, it was the infernal orcs and goblins, both of which bred like rabbits, or the lumbering trolls, ambushing their settlements or the joint patrols that they ran with the elves of Eregion, but the world seemed to be growing darker once more, as if some lieutenant of Morgoth's yet lived, stirring up strife._

_The rumble of the very bedrock of the mountain almost knocked the king to the floor, only grabbing fast to his grandson holding the older dwarf up as all of them stopped, gazing about in shocked alarm. The king, however, grit his teeth, muttering several curses in Khuzdul before giving the prince's arm a shake._

_"Come on, boy. This one's a strong one. If we don't get there fast, he could bring down the entire mountainside!"_

_That seemed to snap the other dwarf out of his stupor, both royals briefly outdistancing those guards who had not been as lucky about keeping to their feet. From ahead of them rang the sounds of battle- the sharp clang of metal on stone, the grunts and cries of pain, shouted warnings and the roar of the mighty beast._

_Skidding down the last hall and through the doorway of the main feasting and reception hall on the main level, it was only a fast dodge and shove by the prince that prevented the king from being swept instantly off his feet by the huge scaled tail. The first sight of the dragon took Durin's breath away, the thing filling most of a room normally able to seat over 300 dwarrow, standing easily twenty feet high at the shoulder with a head the size of a wagon. It was completely covered in bronze scales that flashed hints of silver-grey around the belly. Had the creature not been attempting to destroy his city, it was a sight that would have taken away many a dwarrow breath at the sheer beauty, a vision of metallic sculpture fit for the finest king's hall._

_That such intelligent, beautiful beasts had been so corrupted by Morgoth that there was no chance of redemption was one of the tragedies of the First Age of Middle Earth. Men claimed that the dragons had to have been created by Morgoth, but dwarrow records stated otherwise, written by Durin I himself long before. Morgoth, or Melkor as he was originally called, had never been granted the power to create, only to twist and corrupt, as he had when elves became the first orcs and dwarrow were twisted into monstrous trolls only to be returned to the stone from which they were made at the first touch of sunlight. No amount of beauty or pity, however, would keep the king from killing the thing._

_"You cannot win, dark creature! Leave this place and I will spare your life!"_

_The shout caught the beast's attention, which Durin realized a minute too late might not have been a good thing. The teeth that were shown glittered like dozens of mithril spears longer than a dwarf was tall._

_"And why would I do that when the stink of dwarf is only overtaken by the reek of fear, puny king? How many shall I kill? Two dozen? Five? One hundred?"_

_A twitch of the massive body and dwarrow warriors were sent flying in every direction, several impacting walls to slide down, still, on the floor._

_“Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!”_

_The war cry of the dwarrow was ripped from a dozen throats as the warriors renewed their charge, an intricate dance of torchlight sparking off of varying colors of armor, ducking and weaving about the gleaming limbs of the great creature. Finally, the king was able to slide along the floor under the claw, mithril blade biting deep into scales that other weapons could not so much as scratch. This, in turn, made the dragon rear and twist to confront this tormentor, momentarily exposing the underbelly. Even as Durin was forced to concentrate upon not being killed, he caught the swift blur of arrows from the corner of his eye, noting in satisfaction that at least one had struck true. It was not, however, a vital hit, serving only to enrage their foe while allowing drops of deadly blood to splatter as the beast wrenched the arrow free._

_“’Ware its blood!”_

_Durin bellowed, only to gasp as his single second of inattention cost him dearly. One swipe of a massive claw sent him flying across the room to impact one of the enormous stone columns, and he felt at least one rib give under the punishment. Hitting the floor and lying momentarily dazed, he could hear the cry of at least one dwarf who’d been unable to heed his warning, the hot stench of burning flesh unmistakable._

_As his vision cleared, Durin twisted to catch sight of his foe once more, attempting to scramble up only to be sent tumbling again as the dragon flung itself around, landing hard on the floor in an odd belly flop with tail, teeth, and all four claws lashing out to scatter dwarrow like so many fall leaves. Forcing himself upright once more, the king dove back into the fray, the Ax of Durin once more biting deeply and its owner again hurled away. This time, though, it was a wall that bore the impact and his head that connected first, sending stars flashing before he started to black out._

_Some part of him screamed that he needed to stand, to fight, though he could not remember why, and when he tried, arms and legs wobbled like ill forged steel, folding under the pressure to send him crashing back to the ground with a clatter that made his head hurt even more. Someone was shouting, pulling at him, but he could not be stirred to discover who or why. His body was lifted, then slammed down, a rib giving way and stabbing into his chest with a pain that finally tore consciousness away for good._

_That he regained awareness again at all was a pleasant surprise, despite the pain of mangled insides; he did not need to hear the soft weeping nearby to know that his wounds were mortal. Without strength to open his eyes, he lay, wishing he could swallow against the foul taste in his mouth. Then, as if in answer to that unspoken wish, a hand lifted his head ever so slightly, cool metal pressed to his lips._

_“Just a sip, Father. To help with the pain.”_

_The herbs tasted like the sweetest of nectar to the dying dwarf, a pleasant warmth spreading through his tortured body, easing pain and giving a trickle of energy back. As his discomfort no longer stole all his attention, eyes slid open to take in the sight of the dwarrowdam hovering over him, tear-streaked face fighting to smile for his sake. So beautiful, with her silver-white hair, the same as her mother! Frey had been of the Stonefoots of the east, an arranged alliance marriage that none had expected to turn into love, least of all him._

_Of course, he had never thought to ascend the throne of Khazad-dûm, either, being merely the sister-son to a king with three sons of his own! No, the only fame he had coveted was that which came with his unparalleled skill at forging the precious mithril and steel into weapons fit for kings. To be the premiere smith with the odd eastern wife who only added to his talent with her ability to etch metals with acids, even mithril, was plenty for him! Fate, however, had not been so kind that overcast spring day as he returned to the kingdom from the east…_

_Jerking his thoughts from such unsettling memories, he reached out one shaking hand to caress the locks so reminiscent of the lady he had loved and lost long ago, his only child turning her face into it and planting a kiss upon one scarred palm. It was the bitter part of the legacy left to them by Durin I; that he would live to not only bury his wife after the fading took her at the age of 321, but to also see his child age to look so much older than he! As his strength waned again, she caught the dropping limb, tucking it securely under furs snugged close to prevent a chill. Behind her, he could just see her son, his heir, seated stiffly in a chair, one arm in a sling and face pale, making bruises stand out. As the younger Durin shifted slightly, he gasped in pain, sweat beading on his forehead._

_The king shifted a bit himself, but a gurgling breath told him that he would not be able to talk, so one hand fumbled its way back from under the covers, shaky signs forming in the new language the miners had been making popular throughout the kingdom._

_‘Prince injured?’_

_Frìs cast a tight-lipped glance over her shoulder, face showing the worry and annoyance of a mother who was being ignored by her adult child._

_“Yes. Some of the dragon’s blood burned his arm.”_

_Durin sucked in a noisy breath in alarm, eyes widening, for the blood of the creatures could be as deadly as their teeth and claws, not only burning, but causing the person poisoned by its touch to die in agony._

_“It’s alright, Father. Lady Galadriel sent healers as soon as her scouts reported the attack on the eastern gate, and they were able to give him the antidote in time. He needs to be in bed himself, though, not wasting his strength-“_

_She cut herself off as the prince muttered something too soft for Durin to hear, though his mother dropped her head to hide her face from them both. The king struggled to pull in a deeper breath, paying for the audacity with sharp pains in his chest and an urge to cough that he dare not give in to. Thank Mahal that Galadriel had decided to move to Lindórinand about seventy years ago, for healers having to come all the way from the west would have been too late! He managed just the slightest hint of a smile as his hands told what his daughter had been too polite to say aloud._

_‘Sitting with dying fool?’_

_That earned a snort from the prince even as a weak laugh came from beneath the mithril hair of the dwarrowdam._

_“I didn’t say that, you’re not a fool!”_

_One eyebrow shot up, as she had certainly called him that in the past. Loudly. And publically._

_‘Dying, though.’_

_"Yes."_

_That was acknowledged with a bitter, tear choked whisper._

_'Dragon?'_

_"The beast is dead, grandfather. Frér killed it, though he sacrificed his own life doing so."_

_Durin III's soft words overrode his mother's muffled weeping, voice hoarse and brittle, warning the king that his heir was almost at the end of his strength. It was almost physically painful, to think of that bright young dwarf, his principal aid for the last ten years, dead when he had barely the chance to live. Far better that it had been an old dwarf like him than Frér, who would be dearly missed at his prince's side as the young heir dealt with what was to come. It would not be easy, this passing of the soul of Durin I from grandfather to grandson at the moment of the elder's death, though writings left by the ancient dwarrow father had at least warned them of what was to come. Knowing that his time was running short, the king crooked his hand into another sign, recalling the quakes they had felt on the way to the battle with a shudder._

_'Kingdom?'_

_"There is... significant damage."_

_At this, the dwarrowdam made a low noise of protest, moving as if to go to her son as he shifted again, sitting forward in the chair with obvious pain, but he waved her off._

_"He would not thank us for lying to him, Mother, especially now."_

_He turned back to the king, face grim._

_"Its death throes and the flood of blood when Frer severed the main artery to the beast's heart caused a massive quake. A fissure has opened up through the room and beyond, we don't yet know how far it extends or the amount of instability."_

_That did not sound at all good, but it was becoming harder and harder to force his hand to move, sight beginning to tinge black at the edges as he faded. For his kingdom, however, he would rally one last time._

_'Deep?'_

_"They tell me a lantern on the end of three ropes tied end to end could not reach the bottom, if there even is one. The southern mines report a fissure opened there, as well, though so far there have been no more quakes. I have experts already assessing the stability of the sites."_

_'Rest. You. Now.'_

_"He will, Father, I'll make certain of it."_

_Durin II managed a barely perceptible tilt of his head at that, the shallow breath that was all he dared to draw abruptly choking him. The burble of blood in his lungs was audible now, a trickle coming from the corner of his mouth as he weakly coughed out one last bit of air he had breathed in, then stilled, never to draw another._  
  
"Thorin!"

Breath exploded from the king as he was abruptly torn from memories too akin to his own last moments for comfort, the feeling of drowning slowly fading as his lungs worked to pull in air as they were supposed to. Fíli was the one who had spoken, standing right in front of the king upon the very edge of the abyss, physically blocking his uncle from a fatal misstep. Blue eyes met matching worried ones, the prince's stance easing as he took in Thorin's return to the present. To Fíli’s right, he could see Kíli still near the foot of the bridge, one hand braced on the shoulder of the ever-present Kifir to steady himself. Therin was slightly apart from his brothers, scowling fiercely, a seemingly permanent expression for the youngest these days.

"One of the Durins died here," He offered by way of explanation, unwilling to speak further of the unsettling parallels with his own life. While not literally true, it was close enough.

"What happened?" Fíli asked, moving away from the edge of the abyss, much to the betterment of Thorin's nerves.

The king sighed, not masking the bitter hatred in cold blue eyes as he answered.

"A dragon." Dwalin began cursing in Khuzdul until Thorin stilled him with a sharp look, surprised at his friend’s sudden presence. "The creature's death struggles must have destabilized a fault line. This was the result."  
Thorin waved a hand at the chasm, absently kicking a small piece of debris over the edge and watching as it vanished into the darkness. Dwalin, however, had not seemed mollified in the least by the explanation, still resembling a thundercloud almost bursting with pent-up rain and lightning.

“What is it, Dwalin?”

The warrior scowled, one hand fingering the head of his war hammer as he leaned on it.

“I was overseeing the removal of filth and set my pack down in the room next to the gate room. When I came back, it was gone!”

The reactions to that were mixed, to say the least. Bofur was the first to speak up, caught in between shock, outrage, and mirth.

“Ya mean someone had the gall to steal from ya?!”

“More likely thought it was lost or in the way and moved it.” Fíli opined, adding a muttered, “I hope!”

A sound none had heard in too long reached their ears then, softening even Dwalin’s thunderous expression – Kíli was laughing.

“I-I’m sorry! I just couldn’t- The look on your face-“

“Did you take the pack?”

Thorin frowned, trying to think if he had seen Kíli anywhere around the gate room before coming here, but the prince was already shaking his head, while the youngest of Dis’ brood, standing next to his brothers now, was looking awfully smug!

“Therin?”

The king demanded, recalling that the other had been in the gate room earlier when he should have been with Kíli. The prince shrugged.

“It’s in the room beyond the one he left it in.”

“I know, I already found it.” Dwalin grumbled.

Thorin was about to ask what the problem was, then, when the warrior continued, pinning the guilty party with a glare that promised dire retribution.

“What I want to know is where my bedroll, dagger, and one of the extra tunics that were in it went!”

Therin paled, shaking his head frantically.

“I didn’t touch any of that, Master Dwalin, I swear! I only moved it!”

“Now, Dwalin, leave the lad alone. I'd hate to have to watch ya given a death sentence for killin' a prince!”

At Bofur’s comment, Kíli snorted, having sobered at the revelation that things were missing.

“No court of judgment anywhere on Middle Earth would rule that anything other than suicide, Bofur!”

“Too true.” Fíli added, rolling his eyes at the audacity while Thorin’s mind turned over possibilities, including how to catch a thief if they had one in their midst.

"Warmaster! We're ready!"

The call made Thorin turn and survey the amount of work already accomplished in surprise, pleased that something, at least, seemed to be going according to plan. A rope bridge made up of evenly spaced boards to serve as a walkway was already tightly strung to the stone columns on either side of the abyss, with an elf and dwarf both on it, testing its strength in various spots. Other dwarrow, with a few men and elves, waited patiently for the word to cross and begin scouting the first section of the great stairs that would lead to the upper seven levels of the stone city. The re-taking of Khazad-dûm had well and truly begun!


	8. When Memory Turns to Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a midnight discussion and darkness looms ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
> 
> Author's Note: The text in bold is taken directly from the "Fellowship of the Ring" by J.R.R. Tolkien and is definitely not mine!
> 
>  
> 
> **WARNING: This chapter contains a non-graphic depiction of an execution by poison.**

8\. When Memory Turns to Nightmare

That night, Thorin twisted in his sleep, unable to settle as his mind coursed through the ages and diverse personalities he had once been even as the few scattered passages retrieved from the Book of Mazarbul haunted him. Voices, some dear, and others unknown, spoke from a darkness that the king could not dispel, nor escape back to the realm of the waking, though he knew it was but a dream.

**_“Balin, Lord of Moria, fell in Dimrill Dale.”_ **

*********

_“They call him the Witch-King of Angmar. The realms of men are falling, the blood of Numenor is too weak in them now.”_

_“The Lord of Rivendell asks for weapons. What word should I send in reply, Lord Durin?”_

_A snort of contempt that changed to a malicious laugh._

_“So the high and mighty Firstborn finally deign to see those so far below them, do they? Tell them we will sell, but set the price at twice the gold we would take from any other. Let them pay for their arrogance!”_

**********

**_“Óin to seek for the upper armories of Third Deep.”_**

*********

_“You cannot seriously be considering helping them! Morgoth cannot be defeated! Nargothrond has already fallen, as have Gondolin, and most of the realms of the Edain… Nogrod and Belegost only hold out due to the might of their walls! We cannot hope to-“_

_“Enough! We must or all will be lost, can you not see that?”_

_“If you do this, Durin, if you go, you will not return through these gates again! Would you have us lose the last of the Fathers?”_

_Laughter, hearty, but bitter, forced._

_“Not by choice, my friend, but I gave my word, and I will not betray that. I may not live, but my spirit will return, Vith. Watch for the signs.”_

*********

**_“The Watcher in the Water has taken Óin.”_**

*********

_“We must expand the mines! The mithril is there, Father, I know it! Why will you not see that?”_

_“Already there have been two cave-ins. Seven dwarrow have lost their lives! Tell me, will your precious gems and mithril buy off the sorrow of their families? Replace a father, a husband, or son? When, my son, will you not see that there are things in this world worth much more than all the mithril we’ve ever found or will find?!”_

_“You are a blind old fool!”_

_“And you are an ignorant child!”_

*********

**_“We cannot get out.”_**

*********

_“My lord, they have taken Mount Gundabad. All there are lost, including your cousin. What are we to do?”_

_“Order the doors sealed. None leaves or enters Khazad-dûm from this day until the darkness has fled or we march to the last hope of Middle Earth.”_

_“Do you truly believe that day will come? That the Men and elves will find the strength to fight Sauron?”_

_“I do not know, Hönir, but it is the only hope that I have now. Gil-Galad is still strong, and Elrond will not be easily dug from that valley he’s found. Begin the plans we discussed, and someone find my son, send him to me. Try the forges first. The darkness grows in Middle-Earth; we must be the spark of light that holds strong.”_

*********

**_“Drums…drums in the deep.”_**

Thorin woke with a muffled gasp, sweat, hot and itchy, making his loose shirt cling to his body, his hand wrapped so tightly around the hilt of his sword that he could feel every graceful carving digging into his skin. Panting slightly, he forced a weary body upright, deep breathes burning his lungs as he sought to slow a wildly beating heart and relax muscles cramped too tightly to easily give up their grip on Orcrist. Around the king, the various snores and shuffle of dwarrow twisting and twitching in their sleep eased his mind out of high alert and he slumped. All was well. He was ready to lay himself back down when a spark of light to the side caught his attention.  
With the gate room and first inner rooms secure, it had been judged that the king and princes would be less vulnerable within for the night, along with a contingent of their personal guard. The stone was not the most comfortable of beds, but it was better than the rain Thorin knew was pouring outside. Squinting, he forced sleep-blurred eyes to focus in the dimness, trying to decide what had alerted him. As the light flared a second time, he realized that it was the faint glow of a pipe being lit, fire brand cupped in a shielding hand to avoid waking the sleepers around him, but with just enough light escaping to bounce off golden braids swinging to either side of the smoker’s mouth. With a sigh, Thorin heaved himself to his feet and picked his way over, unsurprised to see the dark-haired head poking out of the bedroll by the other’s knee. 

“Fíli.”

The whispered word held all the deep affection he so rarely allowed himself to show, but also a hint of the worry that would never completely leave him, not with the trouble these two so regularly attracted. The younger dwarf smiled faintly, dark circles painting smudges under his eyes.

“Thorin.”

“Have you slept at all?”

The golden head gave a small shake, free hand dropping to run over his brother’s hair before tucking the blanket just a bit more securely around the slumbering form.

“No. I wanted to keep an eye on him, and…”

“And?”

Thorin prompted, easing himself to sit next to the princes, noting with a frown that Kíli had not stirred at his brother’s touch. The younger brother had always been a heavy sleeper, but the fever should have made him restless enough to react. At least he showed no sign of nightmares, something Thorin had expected the prince to suffer from after seeing Durin’s Bane. Fíli’s eyes sadly followed his, blue darkening with shared concern.

“We could be fighting a troll right next to him and he probably wouldn’t wake, he’s that exhausted.” The beads on the ends of his braids clacked lightly as he shook his head. “I wish…”

“Fíli…”

Thorin reached out, one hand resting lightly on his nephew’s shoulder, heart sinking when he felt the other flinch. He had never been an easy dwarf to live with, especially during the dark days of their exile, but he had not thought he had ever given his kin cause to fear him, either. His hand tightened on Fíli’s shoulder, giving it a slight shake that made the other lower his pipe and finally turn to look him full in the face.

“He made me promise not to say anything to you, but I can’t-“ There was a pause as his hand became white-knuckled on the metal pipe bowl, the next sentence barely a whisper. “I miss his laughter, Thorin, I miss-“ 

He broke off with a grimace, sudden distress radiating off the slim form and making Thorin’s heart pick up in turn, his recent dreams echoing in his mind. Blue eyes searched his sister-son’s face for a hint of what this dilemma might be that was serious enough to keep the younger dwarf from sleep. He wanted to shake him, and demand answers so that he might turn the problem over in his mind until a solution could be squeezed out of it, but years of hard experience had finally taught him that emotions could rarely be so easily dealt with. Instead, he forced himself to patiently wait and was rewarded with a soft mumble directed toward the floor.

“I- We shouldn’t be here. I should never have given into him when he argued that we should come with you.”

It wasn’t much, but he could work with that.

“You worry for your brother’s safety.” 

It was unnecessary to say which brother, as Fíli would only react with this depth of emotion to Kíli, though he got along with Therin well enough. It was also so obvious that Thorin could have hit himself with his own war hammer for not thinking of it sooner, given the trauma the brothers had suffered. Fíli, who had rarely been separated from his younger brother since the latter’s birth, had watched, too far away to intervene, as Kíli was murdered on the field in the Battle of the Five Armies, a fate that was probably worse than any torture the most evil creature could devise for the golden prince. It had altered him permanently, making the older brother almost obsessive about his sibling’s safety; he had even suffered panic attacks when out of sight of the other early on, though he had not had one in years now. 

Of course, neither of the princes had been allowed into a situation where fighting might occur in years, either, nor had they spent more than a day here or there completely apart in all that time. It was a set of circumstances that Thorin was beginning to suspect only buried the trauma, not aided in allowing Fíli to deal with it, as they had all presumed. There had certainly not been any hint of such worries when having the princes join the army was discussed, only concern about how their wives would handle the load of ruling in their absences, yet that very omission should have alerted both him and Dis. How could he have once again been so blind to the effects of his decisions upon his kin?

“I could order the two of you home. With their mother’s death, Austri and Vestri-“

A bitter bark of laughter cut him off.

“Are you _trying_ to have us both sleeping on the couch? No, they specifically sent us letters ordering us to stay here. Austri thinks that being needed to guide and support them is the only thing keeping Glóin from the fading himself, and selfish or not, she fears losing her father so soon after her mother.” Fíli’s eyes slipped closed as he grimaced, face darting away from his uncle’s penetrating gaze once more. “No, he’s needed here, and I- I will live with it. There is an army a thousand strong surrounding us, not the mere seventy that Balin took with him. What’s wrong?”

Thorin had been unable to mask the sharp inhalation of breath and the shudder that ran through him at the mention of Balin’s name, his own reason for being awake in the middle of the night returning sharply. Now it was the turn of the nephew to search for clues in his uncle’s visage while the older dwarf struggled not to display his distress.

“Was the Book of Mazarbul brought with us?”

“Yes. Uncle-“

“In the morning, I want you to meet with our best scholars and anyone else with knowledge of such things. See if there is any way to restore more of the text.”

He could see the puzzlement mingled with shock in the prince’s eyes at such a directive, but the other nodded acceptance with the total trust in his uncle that Thorin had once feared irrevocably lost.

“Is there any reason that you wish this now? Back in Erebor, we were told that the book’s condition meant that such efforts might destroy more than we gain.”

Then again, his nephew might just have been waiting until he could voice his doubts in a more diplomatic way!

“You have been dealing with outsiders and diplomats too long, Fíli, you have forgotten how to speak with other dwarrow. You wish to know if your royal uncle has taken leave of his royal senses, do you not?”

That at last drew out a genuine smile and hastily muffled laughter from the younger dwarf.

“I would not go that far, no, but I was wondering why you had suddenly changed your mind when you had said earlier that it wasn’t worth the risk. Is it the reason you’re awake in the middle of the night as well?”

Thorin pursed his lips, considering carefully before he answered. He was not quite certain why he had suddenly decided such a thing, yet… Fíli was no longer the callow youth who had made jokes about orc raids, but a young ruler of Durin’s blood who had been trained by the very one whose council he so missed right now.

“There is an uneasiness to this place that I cannot shake, a feeling that I am missing something important, and tonight, all I could hear in my dreams were voices telling of death and sorrow. The lines of the book kept repeating, over and over, though I could see nothing through the veil of darkness hiding the speakers from me.”

“And you believe this to mean that you missed something in the book.” Fíli was silent for a long moment, then added, "You might ask Frodo if he would aid them, as well. Bilbo trained him in a different scholarly tradition than our people."

Thorin allowed his head to lean back onto the stone wall with a soft clunk, absently accepting and drawing on the pipe he was handed. He had heard the skepticism in Fíli’s first statement; could not truthfully blame him for it, though the suggestion that followed was a good one. Thorin had not raised his heirs to put their faith in dreams and signs any more than he did, believing instead that a dwarf made his own path as well as he could. That, however, had been before the Arkenstone. He curled the fingers on his marked hand in to rub over the scars upon his palm as the smoke in his lungs sent a faint buzz through his body, calming his mind as the cloud left his mouth. Next to them, Kíli made a soft mewling noise in his sleep and rolled, hand falling open to allow the soft multi-colored light of the miniature Arkenstone embedded in his own palm to dance around his uncle and brother. Fíli snorted, rolling his eyes, but made no move to nudge his brother into another position.

“He forgot to put a glove over that again. Vestri says he rarely bothers in their chambers, as she finds the lights rather restful, but I’d better start reminding him here.”

“Hmm.” Thorin’s hum of agreement did not long divert him from the topic at hand. “I do not honestly know, but always before this, the memories of Durin’s lives that I see have had some relation to what was happening now. Sometimes they merely were memories brought out by circumstance, but sometimes-“

“Sometimes they have been warnings? You’ve not mentioned it before now.”

Thorin almost groaned at that, wishing the other were a bit less alert, especially when they both were so short of sleep. This would do nothing but dig up old hurts for his nephew.

“It did not seem to matter as it only happened twice, both times long before now.”

“During the journey back from Minas Tir- Arnor?”

“Yes…” 

Thorin hesitated, but knew that there was no way short of Kíli waking and needing help that he would be able to stop short of explaining fully. If there was one trait that had bred true in the Durin line since its inception, it was the stubbornness. 

“I dreamed of the Balrog just before returning to the mountain, a warning that I had yet to fully confront the last of the gold sickness within.”

“And the second time?”

Heaving a sigh, the king faced his nephew, seeing the suspicion lurking in blue eyes.

“That was the second time, Fíli. The first showed me Durin IV, whose son had been forced to drink the taint of Mordor by the cult, turning him to darkness. I had it while in that cave with Kíli.”

Fíli jerked away, head ducking down as hands ran up and down his legs in nervous agitation before he ran his fingers over the outside of one arm, though the wound he sought was long healed, leaving only the faintest trace of a scar. An accident while crossing a bridge in Mirkwood had sent the prince plummeting into muck tainted by the run-off from the ruins of Dol Guldur, the ancient stronghold of Sauron in his guise of the Necromancer. Though the stuff had lost much of its potency with exposure to light and the death of its creator, it had been enough to give Fíli violently paranoid delusions, taking his uncle and brother captive for a harrowing three day trek through the forest.

“What happened?”

Thorin was so lost in his thoughts that he almost missed the whispered question.

“What?”

“What happened to Durin IV’s son? Were they able to save him?”

_Second Age, 3441_

_Durin IV, Lord of Khazad-dûm, most powerful of all the dwarrow upon Middle-Earth, sat upon the bare stone, feeling helpless as the cold settled into his bones. The room was small and dark, a single torch flickering casting shadows through the iron bars separating the king from the dwarf sitting stiffly on the other side. The prisoner, however, paid no attention to his royal visitor, stuffing his face with food dribbling out of both hands before letting out a belch and grabbing his cup, drink spilling down a matted, stringy beard onto filthy clothing. Washing water had been provided, along with fresh clothing, but both had been sneered at._

_Durin just watched, hands clenching to stop himself from crying out a warning, wanted to slap the fatal bites from twisted, angry lips. But he could not._

_How had it come to this? That a father could sit silently by and watch his only son unknowingly poisoning himself? Tears trickled unheeded down his face as he watched, swallowing hard, as the Prince of Khazad-dûm looked up with a malicious cackle._

_"Enjoying the show so much, Father? Such pretty little tears upon the face of the mighty king! You have only to give yourself to the Dark Lord, and you would never feel such petty emotions again."  
Durin shook his head, heart in his throat as he struggled to control his emotions enough to speak._

_"And why would I wish to do such a thing? They make me who I am."_

_He wanted to stop this, to spend his last minutes with his son telling the younger dwarf how much he loved him, how sorry he was to have failed him, but he could not. When it had been decided that this was the most merciful way to handle the execution, it also meant that nothing could happen that was out of the ordinary. So, here the king sat, as he had each morning since the discovery of the prince attempting to smother his baby son and then, when that was thwarted, trying to kill his father. Or rather, the creature who had taken the place of his son had. From what could be determined, the prince had died the moment that the tainted drink had been forced down his throat by a member of the Death Warriors, as Sauron's followers among the dwarrow had been named._

_"Such things make you a foolish weakling."_

_The king allowed himself a bitter laugh at that._

_"You would lecture me about weakness? Tell me, how is it that your mighty master must resort to trickery and slaughter, if he is so strong? Even now, his tower is besieged and he hides while the mightiest host seen upon Middle-Earth comes calling! It is not we who are weak, child."_

_The other dwarf's purposely atrocious eating had slowed, hands beginning to fumble slightly as the first signs of the drug became evident. It did not stop Sauron's pawn from sneering at the king, however.  
"You are d-dependent upon love and trust, both of which are only illusions! Ways to con-control others too weak to see - What have you done?!"_

_The prince's body slumped to the side as his eyes began to lose focus, sliding closed, then jerking open again. As his father watched, one hand reached out in supplication as he jerked, trying to fight the herbs pulling him into sleep._

_"Please, do not fight it, my son. Soon you will be in Mahal's Forge, safe and free once more from this vile imprisonment. Just sleep."_

_Durin gasped, finally giving himself permission to reach back, hand shaking as it closed on that of his son only to have the other suddenly stiffen, grabbing and twisting in an attempt to break the older dwarf's wrist. Blue eyes opened one last time, as cold as the ice on the peaks high above them._

_"You - will - die!"_

_With that, the body slumped, falling into stillness as Durin pulled away to fall back against the hard stone of the wall, tears streaming down a bereft father's face._

Thorin closed his eyes momentarily against the pain that echoed from that memory, even after all this time. He had noticed that some of the emotions his predecessors felt were so strong that it was as if it were him in the memory, while others were distant, a dream recalled dimly in the light of morning, and he had yet to figure out why. This one, though… The loss of one loved so dearly, taken too soon and leaving his father with a feeling of helpless rage, that was too similar to what Thorin himself had felt as he lay dying after that horrific battle, knowing that his boys were already gone in a futile attempt to defend him. Swallowing hard, he cleared his throat, blinking back the tears that stung the corners of his eyes before they could fall.

“No. The Istari were not yet in Middle Earth, and no other had the power to aid him.”

Beside him, Fíli had slumped back against the wall, eyes closed in painful memory. 

"I would not have wanted to live, not like that. Hurting those closest to me."

Even after fourteen years, there was a great deal of lingering pain and self-recrimination in those words. The silence that followed them, however, was what truly caught Thorin's attention. Turning back to his nephew, his stomach clenched to see the golden prince staring at the dagger held in his hand as if entranced, the torchlight setting the rune inscribed on the pommel ablaze. Reaching out slowly, Thorin allowed his fingers to gently tug the weapon away, not wanting to recall the horrific sight of it being thrown toward his sister. If he had not knocked into Fíli’s arm, if Bofur had not moved when he did- The consequences did not bear contemplating.

"You hurt Therin today."

The simple statement caught Thorin completely by surprise, making him gape at the other dwarf for a long moment, mind stuttering to make sense of what had just been said.

"What?"

"He is your heir, Thorin, not me. Not anymore. It should have been his place as prince to oversee the proper treatment of our people's remains. Instead, you sent him off with another group, and not even in charge."  
It was with a cold shock that Thorin realized Fíli was correct, that he had not thought through what he had been saying. He was so horrified at what his youngest nephew must have taken as a dismissal that he did something he rarely allowed, he blurted out his error.

"I did not think..."

The prince smiled sadly at him, reminding Thorin strongly of another heir of Durin, though there was no taint left in Fíli, thank Mahal.

"You simply ordered things as you would have on the quest. I told Therin as much, pointed out that you were overwhelmed with the memories, but you need to speak with him, uncle. He takes such things to heart as much as Kíli does."

“I will.”

Thorin softly promised, silently watching as the blonde put away his pipe and lay down near his sibling, thankfully dropping quickly into what looked to be a peaceful sleep. Fíli, however, had never been one to lie quietly for long, soon turning to allow one hand to flop onto the stone outside the blankets, looking as if he reached one last time for his kin.

_Durin did not know how long he sat there, hand resting upon the cold stone just short of his son’s lifeless one, tears running unchecked down his face. It might have been mere minutes, or hours, before the warm, large hand came to rest upon his shoulder, a tall, thin form folding gracefully down to sit at his side. As he did, several dwarrow came silently in, gently removing the body with the respect due a prince of Durin._

_“I would have spared you this, my friend.”_

_The king shook his head, eyes still locked upon his son’s disappearing form as the others quietly swung the door closed behind them, leaving him alone with his visitor. His voice, when he spoke, was choked and guttural with grief._

_“There was no reprieve, not when it was my orders that put him there, my orders that laced his food with poison.”_

_“You were given no choice, Durin. To leave him here was to leave an enemy at your back, in the heart of your kingdom. He was Mordor’s creature now, nothing more. Do not take the weight of misplaced guilt upon shoulders already bowed with grief, but remember instead the dwarf who was your son- warrior, smith, and occasional bad poet.”_

_The dwarf stirred at that, the faintest of laughs escaping at the mention of the prince’s somewhat lackluster attempts at verse, finally allowing reddened eyes to meet the dark, ageless gaze of his elven friend.  
“Is there life beyond this, Elrond? An escape from the darkness and cruelty? For I cannot see it. All I see is death.”_

_“Then let me show you life and hope instead, mellon. We had not planned to say anything yet, but…”_

_The dark haired elf smiled, suddenly full of a besotted amazement that transformed his visage from ageless to the most love-sick youngling, and Durin knew without any further words what had happened. It was so comical an image that he could not help a genuine laugh this time, a spark of light that he seized with both hands._

_“Celeborn and Galadriel have given consent? And Gil-Galad?”_

_“Yes, they have all offered their blessing.”_

_“You always did have the rottenest timing.” Durin grumbled. Only Elrond would think it appropriate to woo his lady in the midst of the battle for their very lives! “I had thought we said you should wait until this thrice-cursed war was done. Aren’t you elves always the ones counseling the wisdom of time and patience?”_

_The elf paused at that, focus going over his friend’s shoulder to the empty iron cage._

_“I realized that if the prince of the mightiest dwarrow kingdom could be taken and corrupted in the very heart of it, that there is truly no safety upon Middle-Earth. I would not have my lady lose me without knowing the truth of how I feel.”_

_Durin grunted, resisting the urge to say ‘I told you’, as this was what he had been trying to hammer into his friend’s head for the last ten years. The comment upon his son he allowed to pass unremarked. He would carry that sorrow to his grave._

_“And the lady herself? It’s usually polite to ask her as well, you know. She might have come to her senses while you dithered around, too shy and love-struck to risk rejection from Celeborn, and found someone with more of a backbone!”_

_A golden laugh preceded the subject of their discussion as the door swung open once more, an elven maiden of great beauty seeming to float through as if walking upon the very air. Her presence lightened the room as her besotted beau stumbled to his feet with an awkwardness rarely seen in elves. Elrond’s eyes were only for his beloved, Durin noted, amused, rather than upon where he was putting his feet. As the dwarf lord stood, golden eyes sought out the strained face, tallying every new wrinkle and tear shown by the bereaved father. The lady took both of his hands in hers, empathy easily connecting dwarf and elf._

_“I grieve with thee.”_

_“Thank you.” Was all that he could manage before seizing upon the diversion his friend had previously offered. “So you actually agreed to marry this lout, then?”_

_Celebrian smiled, mischief floating about her as she looked to the dark-haired half-elf who had won her heart._

_“I could hardly refuse after he took life and limb in hand to persuade my father, could I? Such courage must be properly rewarded!”_

_“Are you two quite through?” Elrond asked acidly, though his countenance showed only amusement at their teasing. “The wedding will be in the Golden Wood, and I would ask, Durin, that you stand with me.”_

_The king could not hold back the gasp of shock, tears coming for a different reason at Celebrian’s confirming nod._

_“Nothing could make us happier than your presence upon that day.”_

_Durin shook his head in amazement, a firm tug upon her hand making the maid bend until he could plant a kiss upon her cheek._

_“It would be my honor, though I do not know what some of you kin might say to such a short, hairy witness.”_

_The girl looked to her lord, whose sappy expression had become worse, if anything._

_“Elrond and I do not care, though I must confess that I do not see the attraction of beards. Yours tickled!”_

_“I believe you will find, Celebrian,” Elrond intoned with a bare sparkle in his eye to let the others know he was not completely serious. “That it is necessary to keep their faces from scaring off prospective mates!”_

_Durin rolled his eyes, one hand caressing the luxuriant length of grey-streaked brown beard, mentally thanking his original father, Durin I, once again for the legacy that froze the inheritors of his soul as Durin in time, unaging until they were killed. His grandfather, Durin II, had looked to be barely past his hundredth year until the day he died! With a wave of the hand, he ushered the two into the corridor, waiting until Elrond was completely focused upon whispering to his beloved, and then he swiftly stuck a foot between the elf lord’s feet._


	9. Stairway to Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some of the hazards of Khazad-dum are fallen into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
> 
> Author's Note: Yes, I am going with the addition of Tauriel and the subplot she is involved with in the movie. She will not ever be more than a minor character in my works, but she makes too good of a foil for Kili for me to ignore totally, though his interaction with her will be strictly as a friend. I hope that this will not offend anyone, but I do understand the dislike some have for the character.

9\. Stairway to Disaster

Kíli watched, eyes warily scanning the landings above that were still shrouded in darkness as a small team of dwarrow and one elf worked to secure another of the temporary rope bridges across the gap in the great staircase. Truthfully, they were lucky this area was passable at all given the damage done by the Balrog as it chased the Fellowship through these halls and to the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, where Gandalf had stopped it.   
The prince shivered, trying to put the image of the old wanderer facing the towering form of darkness and fire alone from his mind, knowing he would probably have yet another night of broken sleep tonight. Since seeing the horrific creature and feeling the overwhelming rejection, the wrongness, imbedded into the very stone where the thing walked, he had been suffering nightmares. That was not something he was about to tell Fíli or Thorin, however. For the last two nights, he had feigned sleep until certain his brothers and uncle had all dozed off, then scooted over to sit against the wall, watching the dim forms of the others in camp until the dawn watch went out, pondering anything that came to mind with a weight it might not otherwise have. 

If Gandalf had known such a creature was here, why had he ever ventured through the gates? Would they not have had a better chance going through the High Pass if Redhorn was blocked? If Gandalf could stand up to the Balrog, why was he unable to protect the Fellowship from a bit of snow? The ways of wizards would never cease to baffle him! 

He had heard talk among some of the dwarrow who wished to name the new span being constructed the Bridge of Tharkûn, even given the often meddlesome nature of the old wizard, though Thorin had yet to respond to such a notion. Truthfully, Kili would just be happy to never need to go through there again! A shout from one of the dwarrow on the landing above reminded the prince that he had best keep his mind from such thoughts, given what they were doing. If Thorin were to catch him wit-wandering yet again…

This was tedious work, and nervous, as just because they had yet to encounter resistance did not mean their enemy was not lurking nearby, but necessary if they were to do anything more. Khazad-dûm had been built in sections over several hundred or more years, each able to be isolated for defense or to contain illness. The eastern section housed the main city, and was the area where they believed they were least likely to encounter resistance, as the finished levels and architecture favored the dwarrow, who easily navigated such places. 

This end of the ancient city had further been built for defense, with not only the narrow bridge, but this stair to confound intruders. Each landing led to another level of Khazad-dûm, seven up and seven down from the gate, each one easily defended from above, or cut off if necessary, the only way into the city other than hidden passages whose secrets were long since lost, even, apparently, to Thorin, whose access to the memories of the various Durins was not automatic. Kíli himself could pinpoint where they were by reading the stone, but without the key or proper words, it was simply another wall.

Several nights before, Thorin had drawn the leaders of the army about him, laying out a map of Khazad-dûm upon the stone floor of the main gate-room as he explained his strategy. They would make their way up the stairs, sealing off each level so that none could come at them from behind, with the exception of the main market area upon the second upper floor, to which they had moved this morning. That, they would use as a main camp from which to work until they reached the uppermost, or Twenty-first, hall, when the army would be split into pieces, each one taking an upper floor to clear as they moved east. After that, groups would fan out, scouring the deeps slowly downward of all enemies until they were left with full control of the city and northern mines before venturing into the other two sections of the kingdom. 

It was logical, as the orcs, trolls, and other squatters would have been more likely to alter the lowest levels close to the mines to suit their dark nature, and the southern and western mines were full of natural caverns. It was there that the army would most likely encounter the fiercest battles and most uncertain ground, so they would need strong, safe areas to their backs. From what little he had been able to read from the stone as he poured over the same map back at Erebor, Kíli knew that there were vast sections not built by any dwarrow that would have to be dealt with very carefully; mazes of tunnels worse even then Goblintown had been.

Something about the entire conference, however, had bothered the brunette prince; or, more precisely, about how his uncle had acted. Thorin was keeping secrets again, he was almost certain of it, and worse, Fili had some idea of what it was. Even more irritating was the way both of them hovered around him incessantly, ensuring that he had food, drink, or anything else he needed before he could think to ask Kifir for it. Thorin and Fíli were both careful to never directly badger him about any of it, of course, so he could do little beyond gritting his teeth and smiling.

When it was decided that Kíli would go to Khazad-dûm, Dis, foreseeing trouble with the unerring instinct of a mother, had sat her family down and brokered an agreement. Thorin and Fíli would not directly pester him to rest, eat, or anything else once inside the ancient kingdom. Asking, however, would be allowed, provided it was done sparingly. In return, Kíli agreed not to fight the ministrations of the healers, eating and resting when told and swallowing whatever vile concoctions they gave him. Fíli was also allowed to keep a check upon the ever-present fever. 

Of all those close to him, only Tauriel and Therin were not constantly watching over his shoulder, though the elf maiden was a bit more concerned with finding some goblins and orcs to fight. That definitely had not changed, she was as hot tempered and impetuous as ever! Though she seemed determined to stay nearby, the she-elf had yet to speak with him, hurrying away both times he had attempted to initiate conversation, a situation the dwarf found as impossible to let alone as a sore tooth.

The sharp clang of metal on stone drew Kili’s attention back to what he was supposed to be doing in time to see the dwarf tossing the hook, Nast, curse before pulling it back to attempt another throw. This was the first crossing of the morning, and Nori's eldest son was already in a foul mood. The gap in front of them was perhaps twelve feet across, the largest one they had yet to find, though the stone seemed solid enough. Frowning, the prince had to push against some undefinable block as he sought to feel the stair with his mind, literally becoming the rock, every weakness a corresponding ache in his body. 

Watching Nast miss yet again, he almost swore he saw the shadowy forms of the Fellowship, jumping and scrambling as part of the stair crumpled beneath them. The prince's gape of shock turned into a shaky chuckle as one of the distant figures was saved from falling by a taller figure grabbing his long, red beard! The stone here had a strong memory, one that had begun to show itself the deeper he pushed into connecting with it, leaving shades of dwarrow and others teasing at the edges of his vision day and night. It was getting nerve wracking just for Kíli to tell what was real and what might be yet another wisp of the past that would disappear within moments. Last night he could have sworn he saw one of the dwarrow of Balin's company lurking in the shadows near the supplies. When he had gotten up to check it out, however, the dwarf was gone.

It was the soft whine, very familiar to him, that drew his eyes up to see torchlight glint off of multiple objects in the air just as Nast let the grappling fly once more. The prince gasped, grabbing frantically at Kifir to pull him down even as he shuddered from the feel of the grappling hook landing, scraping over his skin as if it were the rock.

“Kíli? What’s wrong, do we need to pull the team back?”

The words buzzed around his head like so many bees, making no sense as his eyes searched for the arrows he could have sworn were flying at them only to see empty air. Someone was shaking him, a face in his, but before he could pull out of the stone enough to respond, the grappling found an anchor point, the hook digging into the rock doubling him over with the feeling of being stabbed. It had never been this bad, this strong, before! 

“Kíli! Sit down before you fall!”

Somehow he obeyed the words, though they did not seem to make any sense, feeling his body- flesh and blood, not stone, he must remember he was not the mountain! – fold down onto the unyielding surface beneath him. It was water dribbling from the corner of his mouth and onto his hand, however that finally tore him completely away to find Fíli trying to coax him to drink. Irritably, he pushed the water skin away.

“I’m fine!”

“Brother, I’m going to ban those words pretty soon.” 

Fíli’s grim visage left his younger sibling with no doubt that he would, too, and the punishment for breaking that decree would not be to his liking.

“Alright, I’m a bit tired and cold, but nothing to worry about. Tell the team that the hook is secure.”

A hand lifted from his shoulder as Kifir scrambled to obey, darting up the stairs with an energy that made Kíli feel old just watching. Sadly, it had not even been twenty years since he could have not only matched the younger dwarf’s feat, but beat him up the stairs! It still hurt, twisting his stomach in knots as he saw what he would never again have; what he had taken for granted would always be his as he leaped easily from branch to branch in Mirkwood during the quest, twitting the others for their inability to do the same until Dwalin chucked a rock at him. Even when he had lain wounded in-

Firmly pushing such dark thoughts from him, he watched as Kifir came up to the others. He could see Thorin nod and wave the elf out over the rope to the other side, the activity giving him something to focus on besides the blonde still holding him tightly by his other shoulder. He did not want to look his brother in the eye, knowing Fíli would too easily see through his lies. 

Not that it was all that much of one, really. He was alright, but the effort needed to read the stone left his head pounding and various body parts feeling bruised and aching. Above them, he could see the dwarrow already working on the far side of the gap to secure more ropes in preparation for placing the pre-built wooden span. The elf with them, Tanil, he thought Tauriel had said his name was, was balanced upon the rope already in place, speaking casually with Nast, as if not conscious of the two hundred foot drop below him.

“That still makes my blood run cold. Bloody elf! Can’t they ever stand upon things that were meant for it instead of perching like overgrown birds?”

Dwalin’s low, rumbling complaint brought a smile to Kili’s lips as he glanced up to see the Warmaster and Thorin descending the last steps to the landing they rested upon. The king’s expression was grim, though he could see his uncle trying hard not to allow a smirk at the warrior’s words, catching the low teasing reply.

“You haven’t forgiven Legolas for the river yet, have you?”

A snort, and the large dwarf’s eyes narrowed at his shieldbrother.

“I didn’t see him using you for a stepping stone!” 

Thorin snorted, but did not reply, worried gaze locked on his dark-haired nephew and not deceived in the least by Kili’s attempt at a sunny reassuring smile of greeting.

“Do you need a halt called so that you might rest, Kíli?” 

“No.”

“Yes.”

Fíli overrode, tone sharp with worry and a hint of anger that had Kíli turning to him with a frown.

“No! Fíli, I’m-“

“Don’t say it!”

“-not in need of a break yet.” He could not help the flare of resentment that was stoked to life by the blonde’s scoff. “I am not some sickly child in need of coddling! We will never retake the city if everyone is constantly standing around waiting upon me! We have already been two days upon the stair and are only at the third level."

Before he could say anything further, however, a sharp pain, as if he were being skewered with a hot poker, erupted from his middle, tears springing unbidden to his eyes as he doubled over, gasping. One hand clenched at the others blindly, trying frantically to convey the warning he did not have the breath to shout. Voices yelled, mixing with one another into an intelligible jumble of Westron and Khuzdul, but his bleary vision was locked on the horror unfolding above.

Several of the advance party had begun moving before the last echoes of the warning had even died away, which is probably what saved their lives. Tanil was a blur as he physically grabbed the dwarf he had been talking to, tossing him across the gap to the other span, then turned to pick up another as the first ominous crack sounded. Swift elven feet began running back across the rope toward safety, lightly jumping over the hands of another dwarf who had managed to leap out and grab on. As the piece of stair shook, it sent the last two members of the team rolling down the steps, one managing to grab hold of rock even as the other tumbled into the air, disappearing with a shout of despair.

As the elf and his dwarf passenger swiftly crossed the last feet of rope, the pillar of broken stairwell gave one final shudder and began to drop, the last terrified member of the party clinging to it. There was another stab of fiery pain, and Kíli felt the grappling hook wrench loose, the weight of the dwarf only halfway across causing it to fall fast. The others grabbed hold of their end as the dwarf swung, a long arch out of their line of sight, but the prince felt the impact of body hitting unyielding stone nonetheless, three deaths one after another, and mercifully blacked out. 

It could not have been more than a few minutes before he regained consciousness to the sound of a heated argument taking place almost on top of him. Though there was no longer any pain, Kíli felt a weird detachment, a coldness and distance from what was happening, that was unsettling even as another part whispered not to fight it, for stone did not feel pain, guilt, or loss. An abrupt wrench of fire in his head and he saw them all from far above, a silent watcher. 

He was lying flat out on the stone of the landing, head and shoulders cradled in Fíli’s lap, Kifir anxiously crouched nearby. Above him to one side was Thorin, on the other one of those who had just been saved, a sturdy, square-framed dwarf with a shockingly bright orange beard. Both were red-faced, hands gesturing wildly as they spoke. Then the elf tried to join in, and both dwarrow rounded on him. Kíli knew he needed to stop this before it escalated any further. At that thought, everything whirled around him, and he closed whatever non-corporeal eyes he used, only to have his physical ones spring open with a gasp.

“Stop! Stop it.”

Hands were aiding him in sitting, a voice in his ear urging him to take it slowly, but he ignored that, totally focused upon the combatants above him. Thorin was the first to react, swiftly kneeling to place a hand on Kili’s shoulder.

“It’s alright, Kíli, nothing to-“

“No!” The prince knocked his uncle’s hand aside, something he would not have dared to do even ten years ago, but he felt now that it was a right he had finally earned. Brown eyes met those of the other dwarf and the elf. “I am sorry that there was not warning enough to save everyone. I grieve with you.”

“Save your pretty words, princeling! I did not come here to find death from unsteady rock and children too weak to warn us in time, fainting at the first inkling of trouble!”

Kíli flinched hard at the harsh words, reminding himself that the other was a northwestern Firebeard, one who knew nothing of the burden he now bore. He was quick to catch his uncle’s sleeve, knowing that Thorin’s temper would not stand for such insults, a defense that would only cause the other dwarf to sneer further at the prince. Beside him, Kifir was already on his feet, and the only thing restraining Fíli was the fact that he was still holding up his brother. Not all present were so restrained, however. A heavy, leather garbed fist caught the Firebeard hard across the mouth, blood droplets spraying out from a split lip.

“You will show proper respect to our prince!” Nast snarled, Gimli only a step behind him and bristling as red as his beard. “Even the few seconds we had probably saved your life, and we would not have had those without Prince Kíli!”

Thorin wrenched his arm from his nephew’s grasp, standing to loom into the shocked dwarf’s face, so close that the other leaned instinctively backward.

“You know nothing of what the prince sacrifices by being here! Give me one reason I should not order you thrown out of my door!”

Another dwarf shouldered his way to the front, this one with a deep burgundy beard gathered in two forked braids. He grabbed his angry kin by the arm and pressed a bit of cloth into his hand to stop the bleeding of his lip.

“Please, Lord Thorin, do not take his anger to heart. One of those who just fell was a childhood friend of ours.”

Kíli grit his teeth at that, forcing weak legs to push up as Fíli’s aiding hands under his armpits got him to his feet. Thorin looked as if he wanted to object, but settled for shaking his head at his nephew’s stubbornness, then gave a small nod to acknowledge the silent plea in Kili’s eyes. As he turned back to the offending dwarf, it was with the stern visage of Thorin Oakenshield in his most royal bearing.

“Go, take him back to camp, but if I hear one more word of such stupidity, I will not hesitate to carry through upon my threat. I will not abide with disrespect for my sister-sons or any other who comes to aid us here.”

The prince could not help the shaky exhale of relief at that, knowing it was not often that Thorin would so easily relent. To his further astonishment, the king then gave a slight bow of respect to the elf.

“I thank you, Tanil. Without your swift actions, there would have been even more lives to mourn this night.”

“Would that I could have done more, Durin King.” 

The elf murmured in response as the crowd around them slowly dispersed, an air of sadness permeating the surroundings. Thorin gave a silent shake of the head before turning back to the small group with them. 

“Come, we will do no more this day. Kíli-“

The prince was quick to wave his uncle off, Fíli supporting him on one side while Kifir was on the other.

“I’m alright, uncle, I just need some rest.”

“Hmm…” Came the noncommittal, and skeptical, answer, before the king turned away to eye their young cousin. “And what is wrong with you, Gimli? You’re limping.”

The red-bearded dwarf rolled his eyes before tilting his head in Nast’s direction.

“This one landed on me!”


	10. I See Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kili's gift is explored, and the true sacrifices being made become clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

10\. I See Fire

It was almost time for the evening meal before Thorin was able to break away from the small knots of concerned or mourning dwarrow to find his nephews. Besides the Firebeard, they had lost a Stiffbeard and a Longbeard from the Iron Hills, a veteran of both the Battle of the Five Armies and the Siege of Erebor during the War of the Ring. Though he had recalled all the teams after the tragedy on the stairs, the lack of active exploration did not mean that the king would be free to mourn privately. Instead, he had slowly made the rounds among the camps, speaking to any who wished it. Most whispered softly of other times, other sorrows, for the dwarrow had many to choose from, no matter their clan. Some, however, had concerns that Thorin tried not to view as petty, and anger that the king worried might grow.

The main camp had been moved this morning to the great concourse on the second level where the vast markets had once rung with the voices of dwarrow, elves, men, Beorn’s ancient kin, and even some early hobbits. With so many hands, ideas, and ways of organizing, it was inevitable that some small items would be misplaced, but there had been things taken out of packs, leaving nothing else disturbed and who was to say whether a barrel was accidently stove in, or deliberately? 

There were rumors spreading of some odd enemy plot or ghosts haunting the caverns, but the more plausible explanation was, in Thorin’s view, even more depressing – a petty thief. Such a one could not only injure morale, but turn the closest of comrades against one another, let alone those they had been taught from birth to hate. At least the king had been able to have a quiet discussion with Nast on the issue. Who better than Nori’s son to look into such a problem? His talents were wasted simply throwing a grappling hook!

Predictably after the trials of the day, Kíli seemed to have found the most isolated corner of the concourse without going into one of the old shops to start their small fire, someone having moved their things over as well. Just now, the prince was sitting slumped, a bowl from the noon meal left forgotten by his knee as he stared with unnatural stillness into the fire. Beside him, Fíli glanced up at their uncle’s approach and gave a quick head shake, hands flashing the warning Thorin did not truly need.

‘He’s feeling guilty and depressed. Walk carefully.’

Abruptly, the younger prince shifted, casting a broken crossbow bolt into the flame with an angry snap of the wrist, making the fire flare briefly. The flash of greater light was quick, but enough for Thorin to see a pale face drawn with sweat and tears before the brown hair fell forward, shadowing it once more. Beside him, Fíli rubbed one hand soothingly up and down his sibling’s back while murmuring words too soft for Thorin to catch, firelight making his own mane glint like pure gold.

Dark and light, a true reflection of their inner beings, Thorin mused as he settled down upon Kili’s other side, though he did not try to touch his nephew. He knew better. Only Fíli’s or Vestri’s hand would be tolerated at the moment, with his older brother the more welcome of the two, no matter how much he truly loved his wife. Kíli would instantly shrug away from anyone else, even as he craved the comfort that they offered. These two rarely allowed those outside their small circle of friends and family to see the truth of their inner nature, instead hiding behind the shells they had created that were almost the exact opposite of their actual personalities. Or they had, until their return to life appeared to strip down many of the brunette’s protective walls, leaving him raw and fragile.

Kíli had always bounced around, joyful, laughing, teasing, seeming a perpetual child to most… That exuberance had tamed somewhat now, occasionally even becoming visibly forced, a tarnished silver that only showed hints of the light hidden by the dark layer, yet another mask. Those false fronts stayed stubbornly in place, too thick for any to penetrate until he was alone with those few with whom he felt comfortable allowing in. Only they bore witness the fear, anger, and depression that so often took him, a thundercloud that could pass overhead without raining a drop, or the most violent of storms that flattened any with the misfortune to be in its path, even Kíli himself. It was these intense moments that caused his family to worry, when the self-doubt and anger turned inward, and the prince was his own worst enemy.

Fíli, by contrast, showed such a placid, serious, responsible nature that many had wondered how he could put up with, let alone be related to, his irrepressible brother. Hidden under that calm, however, was a wicked sense of humor that could scorch the unwary as readily the sun’s hot rays in summer, with a deeply felt passion that could burn those who opposed him. The elder prince of Durin’s line was the steady driving force behind his brother’s somewhat erratic genius, while Kili’s dark, more cautious side could stop the wave of stubborn certainty that sometimes threatened to swamp Fili. The two worked together as a seamless unit that could not be broken apart by the most determined of foes because they consistently read the two wrong, unable to grasp the true complexities of the relationship.

Kíli was dismissed as frivolous, mercurial, when it was actually he who agonized over rulings, examining them again and again from all sides, while Fíli was apt to jump when his heart told him he was in the right, not waiting for the logic to catch up. Such contrasts had proven to be the bedrock of their joint rule, strong and true, but Thorin knew that if an enemy were ever to come along who truly saw to the core of the duo, it could also prove to be their greatest weaknesses.

As the king silently sipped on his own mug of tea, a short form moved into the firelight, bearing two more cups that were handed to Fíli when Kíli made no sign of having noted his presence, merely casting another old quarrel from the pile next to him into the fire. Frodo settled to the ground halfway across the fire from the brothers and their uncle, giving Thorin a sympathetic smile. Even as the king acknowledged that with a tip of his head, his heart ached once more for the dear friend the younger hobbit so resembled. Here, silhouetted by the fire, Frodo could easily have been mistaken for Bilbo, even his darker hair matching what the older hobbit’s had looked like after weeks on the road with no proper baths.

During the year and a half the old hobbit had lived in Erebor following Thorin’s return to life, the two had become close friends, giving the dwarrow king a vital outlet for the troubled emotions he dared not share with his family. The doubts, fears, and rages when he did not understand, or could not cope with, the changes wrought by his becoming Durin had all been absorbed by the elderly hobbit with an understanding ear, sound advice, or a tart rebuke as needed. In his turn, Thorin had held the other as he mourned the damage he had unintentionally brought upon his own heir with a shared understanding few others could match.

Thorin had long mused over why he had suddenly taken to Bilbo in such a way, and had finally concluded that the old hobbit reminded him of Balin. From the white hair and somewhat acid wit to his kindly nature and willingness to call Thorin a fool to his face, the burglar was the check the king had sorely lacked with Balin’s absence. How often had their former burglar sat as he raged against the cult and its elusiveness or chafed with impatience at the slow preparations to retake the Iron Hills? Was this, then, what his own suspicious, stubborn nature had robbed him of during the quest for Erebor? Had he listened to and valued the hobbit then, as Gandalf had constantly urged, might the disaster that unfolded at the foot of the mountain have been prevented? He would never know, but had vowed not to make the same mistake twice.

“Frodo,” The former Ringbearer looked up, a slightly strained smile telling the king that the memories must be pressing equally close for the hobbit tonight. “How is Gimli?”

The hobbit laughed lightly at that, rolling expressive eyes in long sufferance.

“He’s fine, just sulking and grumbling to Legolas about dwarf tossing and how many bruises he gained this time.”

A snort from across the fire let them know that Fíli, at least, was listening, though Kíli remained motionless, a shadow against the stone wall. The oldest prince allowed a small smile as he spoke.

“From what I’ve heard, he’s suffered worse. Gimli just likes to play the martyr; he always has.”

“Indeed.” 

Out of respect for a dwarf Thorin had a feeling he might never see alive again, he refrained from remarking on Glóin’s similar, and annoying, tendencies toward drama. By the twinkle in Fíli’s eyes, however, he was following his uncle’s shaft of thought without any trouble. Now, though, Thorin turned to his younger nephew, knowing that putting off the question would accomplish nothing beyond allowing Kíli to sink deeper into his morass of self-recrimination.

“Kíli… I need to know what happened today.”

He was very, very careful to allow no hint of accusation or doubt to color his tone, but the prince flinched as if he had been struck anyway. The response was low and bitter.

“So do I, Thorin.” The lack of a familial title was telling. Kíli only reverted to such stiff correctness now when in council, court, or when he felt some action of his had denied him the right to claim such ties, a form of self-punishment that he allowed none to contradict, even Fíli. “It’s like… trying to shoot through a fog. I don’t always know if I’m seeing a deer or a log… or nothing, then, all at once, things are too sharp, too bright, and I get blinded. I saw- I can’t-“

The prince cut himself off with a frustrated growl, hand clenching the black bolt shaft he had picked up so hard that it snapped with a sharp ‘crack’, making the rest of them jump. Kíli merely huffed in disgust, pitching the pieces into the fire before reaching beside him for another, this one already partially split. Why the prince had decided to take it upon himself to collect all the old, useless projectiles, Thorin had no clue, though they made decent fuel if one could put up with the smell of burned fletching.

“Do you think it is because you’re not carrying the Arkenstone?” Fíli asked softly. 

It was a good question, though Thorin did not care much for the idea of the unpredictable stone here. Though it was what had first publicly marked Thorin for who he now was, it was a power that the Durins had never dealt with, making him uneasy, wary of something that so clearly had a will of its own. Kíli, however, was already shaking his head.

“No, we considered that before leaving, remember? It seemed to make no difference whether I carry it or not.”

In fact, the prince had not actually kept the gem to hand except upon ceremonial occasions for years. Given the thing’s penchant for becoming lost or manipulating those around it, Thorin had been relieved when leaving it in the treasure vault seemed to cause no further problems for his nephew. While the Arkenstone had shown none of the taint inherent in the Rings of Power, the king could not shake a deep seated unease about it, either. 

“Besides, it’s in my pack.”

“What?”

Thorin and Fíli blurted in unison, receiving a breathy laugh and roll of the eyes from Kíli before he leaned to the side, fishing in the bottom of his small leather travel case. When he pulled out his hand, the Arkenstone’s dancing colors lit up the room, making several of those nearby jerk around to stare at the princes before a glare by Thorin scattered them.

“I thought we had decided you would not carry it!”

Fíli exclaimed, eyes locked on the gem, which almost seemed to be twinkling, as if it had managed to carry off a joke and was laughing at them! Thorin grunted, dismissing that thought as the overactive imagination of a tired mind. He refused to believe any piece of mere stone could have a personality! His younger nephew shrugged, expression a bit sheepish.

“I know, and I didn’t pack it, Fíli, I swear! I found it this morning wrapped in one of my extra tunics.”

 

The king frowned, but did not call his nephew on the blatant impossibility of that. Of the royal family, only Kíli would touch the Arkenstone, so only he could have placed it in the pack, whether he would admit to it or not!

“What if it’s like the Ring?”

Frodo’s question, coming hard on the heels of Thorin’s musings, almost made the king blanch, snapping his head around to stare at the hobbit in horror. Across the fire, Kili’s face had darkened with what looked to be a defensive objection, but Fíli’s hastily raised hand stilled his brother.

“What do you mean, Frodo?”

The hobbit’s head darted around to assess one dwarf, and then the others before hastily flushing, shaking his head vigorously.

“Oh! No, not like that, I didn’t mean to suggest that the stone might be evil. Even Bilbo had no problem handling it with the Ring no longer around. I meant that the closer I came to the source of the Ring’s power, the stronger It grew, able to twist companions, pull at me…” Frodo shuddered, face a bit pale and peaked, but not the bone white it used to get when forced to talk about his former burden. “When I was still in the Shire, I remember that its tug was very light, tentative except for when Gandalf was around. At one point, a Ringwraith was almost on top of us, literally, as we hid in a grotto under the road embankment, but it couldn’t find us. Later on, though, the things didn’t seem to have to be that close at all. Maybe Kíli cannot feel the rock as easily here because we are so far from Erebor.” The hobbit fidgeted a moment before continuing, gaze locked with Kíli. “It would also make me do things that I was not consciously aware of.”

Thorin shuddered, a chill flowing through him at the thought of an unknown will manipulating his kin, even if it were benevolent. By Kili’s blanch, he had not cared for the idea, either, while Fíli seemed to radiate barely contained anger. Finally, the blonde stirred, one hand still resting on his brother’s shoulder.

“He didn’t have any trouble last winter in Erebor, and all he had then was a map!”

The object of their discussion rolled his eyes again, casting another broken arrow shaft, this one white, into the blaze with a huff.

“You might try speaking to me instead of about me! I wasn’t trying to read immediate changes in the rock last winter, just its present state.” The brunette lowered his eyes, hands now tossing and turning the Arkenstone. “I think it might be like the bridge; I couldn’t tell that was ready to fall until I touched it. If I stay closer to the front team, maybe I can warn them sooner.”

“Or get yourself killed!” Fíli instantly objected, Thorin snapping his mouth shut on his own words and pursing his lips in unhappy agreement. “You can’t move as fast, nor fight as long as the others if they are attacked, Kíli!”  
“I will not have you put at risk.”

Thorin’s tone warned of the finality of that decision even as he caught Fíli’s eye over the other’s head, asking the inevitable silent question. Was now the time to order the princes home? The blonde’s frown let him know it was being considered, but his brother erupted first.  
“Thorin, I have to! I have to- I can save lives!”

Kíli's body tensed, one hand pulling up his ironwood cane as if he meant to press himself to his feet despite his shakiness. The king, however, found his eyes caught by the simple wood, a stark reminder of the disability his nephew now battled daily, and a telling argument for why he should stick with his original pronouncement.

It was not one of a half dozen the prince could choose from back in Erebor, all of them elaborately decorated and made of precious materials, reflecting the various cultures and people who had gifted them to him. Instead, this one was a stout, straight piece of wood bound with iron bands in three places and caps upon its ends, one of which was a sharp point to aid in anchoring if necessary. It had been made by Thorin, patterned after the one carried long ago by Óin, and made to serve as a weapon as well as an aid for faltering steps since the prince no longer carried a sword. The desperation in Kíli’s eyes, however, spoke of more than just a responsibility; his pale, clammy face glistening with fever in the firelight. The king’s eyes narrowed as an incident from their long journey home was brought to the fore of his mind by the sight.

“You felt them die,” It was a horrified whisper, “The impact of body on stone, the blood seeping into cracks in the floor.”

“I still feel them, laying atop me as they grow stiff and cold.”

The words were a bare murmur, brown eyes focused unseeing upon the darkness beyond their camp, with no visible recognition of his horrified listeners. It was not something that any of them had even thought to consider when speaking of whether Kíli should join the expedition to Khazad-dûm; probably because they had all forgotten about it. 

With the younger prince constantly attuned to the mountain, there had been no serious mining accidents in fourteen years, and certainly no deaths. The mental toll alone of such a thing… Thorin’s stomach twisted at the mere thought. It was akin to volunteering to be tortured! Appalled, he could do no more than stare at his nephew.

The brunette’s entire body flinched, almost curling into a fetal position as his face turned as white as southern marble, only the moisture filling too large brown eyes letting an observer know that this was a living being. His breathing was rapid and shallow, hands frozen in place, one clutching the staff, the other the Arkenstone, which was no longer shining with bright colors. Instead, the stone reflected muted blues and silver, serving only to emphasize the extreme pallor of its bearer’s face. Kíli gave a gasp of air, and slumped boneless to the cold stone floor, Fíli’s darting grasp to stop it catching only empty air, his head impacted the stone with the sickening sound of a watermelon dropped by a careless child on midsummer’s eve.

“Kíli!”

Thorin was on his knees beside his nephew in an instant, hands running down the prince’s limbs looking for any hidden injuries, though he did not expect any. Thankfully, there was no spreading pool of crimson coming from the dark halo of hair, as he had feared would be the case. He could hear Frodo calling for a healer behind him, but paid it no mind as the young dwarf began to stir at his touch on the prince’s face. A shoulder bumped his, and he moved slightly so that there was room for Fíli, as well. Both watched, breathe held, as Kíli stirred, shuddering before brown eyes flicked open to gaze around, dazed.

“F-Fíli? Wha-?”

Fumbling hands attempted to push himself up, grimacing as one sent the Arkenstone skittering across the floor. Fíli and Thorin immediately put arms around their kin’s back, aiding him to sit upright as well as guarding against a repeat of the sudden collapse. 

“Easy, Kíli, take it slow. You hit that floor awfully hard.”

The younger prince seemed to agree, one hand lifting to his head as he closed his eyes, weight suddenly being held entirely by the other two. Thorin frowned, shifting to take all of the burden.  
“Fíli, I have him, scoot around behind. I don’t want to lay him down flat again on this cold floor.”

He could feel the rising fever battling with the chill Kíli had already taken.

“Right.”

The blonde had just gotten into position, taking his brother so that the brown head rested against his shoulder, when several dwarrow and a man bustled up, surrounding them. Dwalin, who had moved to stand guard over the royals at some point, scowled at Nast.

“Could you not find a dwarrow healer?”

The man, who looked to be in his early thirties, waved the warrior off with one negligent hand, making Thorin’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. There were not many who would so casually dismiss Dwalin! The healer unrolled his bundle of herbs and other remedies next to the princes, large, dexterous hands already gently prodding at the back of Kíli's head.

“I was closest, and I’ve treated the prince before. Does that hurt, Kíli?”

“Y-yess…”

The prince’s single word answer sounded as if he spoke through a mouthful of mush, making the healer’s eyes narrow.

“Kíli. Look at me.”

“S-stop… Make’em stop.”

“Make what stop?”

The man expertly snagged his patient’s flailing hands while trying to peer into the prince’s eyes. The question, however, seemed to make Kili’s agitation worse, head whipping from side to side with eyes squeezed against the light of the candle the healer held close.

“B-bees… buzzin’! Stop’em!”

The injured dwarf knocked aside the healer’s hands again, only the man’s fast reflexes keeping the lit candle from flying into one of the anxious watchers, and Thorin decided to intervene.

“Kíli!”

Thorin’s bark, at least, got the desired response, even if everyone else around them started, including Fíli. Brown eyes flew open to blink dazedly at the man in front of him, then the prince smiled slightly.

“You look older.”

The healer laughed even as he slowly moved a finger in front of his patient’s face, watching the eyes that automatically followed it.

“That’s what happens with men, Kíli. We don’t live as long as you do, so fourteen years can make a big difference. Coryn didn’t come, he has three little ones he wasn’t keen to leave, but he sends his greetings. You seem to have given yourself a nice lump. Guess even dwarrow heads aren’t harder than stone!”

Thorin frowned, glancing over his shoulder as he wished Senata had been around instead of this man and his inane chatter. Kíli, however, giggled, and the king began to understand. The light banter was meant to test how much attention his patient was able to give his surroundings, and how much he was comprehending. Giggling like a dwarfling, though…

“Wyvern. Alwa’s though-t funny name…”

It was only as Kíli slurred the name with another giggle that Thorin at last identified the annoyingly familiar young man; he was one of the twin healing apprentices who had stayed with the three dwarrow immediately following their return to life in Minas Tirith. With that, the king relaxed, for if he were to trust any healers that were not dwarrow, it would be one trained and sent by Aragorn.

“Aye, it is for a Gondorian, but not for one from the far north. My mother was originally of the people who settled in Fornost, but her parents were exiled when she was young, and they wandered until they were able to make a new life in Minas Tirith. When we were born, Mother told Father he could name one of us – Coryn – and she, the other. Wyvern was a creature from the legends of her people, some sort of lesser dragon. Now, how about you answer some questions for me, instead?”

“Hmmm…” 

Kíli made a low hum of agreement.

“Do you know where you are?”

A soft scoff, as if the prince resented such a basic question.

“Khaa-zahhd… doom. Un-uncle an’ Fíli wan’ me to go home, but I can’t. Won’t. Nope. Nuh-uh.”

“He’s acting like he’s drunk!”

Fíli glanced down at his brother in consternation, only to receive a bright smile in return. Wyvern chuckled, shaking his head.

“Head injuries do that to some people, Fíli. Adding in the exhaustion and fever, you have a more potent brew than the richest ale. It would account for the slurring, as he’s not showing any of the symptoms I would expect to see with a more severe concussion. His pupils are both equal and reacting to light, which is a very good sign. I think it best that we let him sleep. We’ll keep a healer watching him through the night and see how he is in the morning. You dwarrow heal fast, which is a blessing, at least, but I don’t want him doing anything but resting for at least the next several days.”

“He won’t.”

Thorin assured him with a grim certainty, moving to the side as several dwarrow arrived with armloads of blankets to lay out a softer, warmer bed for the injured prince. Kíli would have the rest and quiet he needed to heal, but after that… Whether he and Fíli stayed or returned to Erebor had yet to be decided.


	11. Darkness Falls Upon Durin's Halls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the true tale begins...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
> 
> Special Thank-you to Mom of the Shire for all her reviews and encouragements, and thank you so much to everyone who has left kudos!!

11\. Darkness Falls upon Durin's Halls

That night, Thorin tossed in his sleep, waking just enough to pull at the blanket and listen to the soft sounds of the current healer on duty, Senata, and Lis talking quietly where the dwarrowdams kept watch over the injured Kíli. Satisfied that all was well, the king attempted to settle back, but his dreams were not willing to give him the escape from his worries that he sought. Instead, the anxieties caught upon echoes of similar feelings from long ago, drawing the king into another age.

_Second Age, 699_

_Blain, the dwarf who would become Durin II, swung down from his pony with a weary sigh, casting a glare up at the overcast sky that threatened to dump yet another cold spring rain on the travelers. To his left, the trees of Lindórinand were a dark smudge in the distance, while the mountains ahead loomed ever larger before them with every hoof beat. At least they had forded the Anduin before the spring run-off made it completely impassible without a boat!_

_“Shall we camp here, or do you feel able to push on to the city? ‘Tis almost dark already.”_

_The question was addressed to his wife, a lovely dwarrowdam with iron-grey hair, though she was barely past her fiftieth year. Frey was of the Stonefoots, an eastern clan known for their odd hair colors, including a black so dark that it was almost blue, stone grey, and a blonde that was almost white, mimicking the rock they were made from. Frey, who had never been all that comfortable riding, slid from her own pony with a heartfelt sigh, glancing up at the towering mountains before them._

_“We are being almost there, aye?”_

_Blain could not help smiling at that, knowing exactly what was running through her mind._

_“Aye, and that means you can get off that beast all the sooner.”_

_“Good!” The lady planted her hands on her hips. “Dwarrow feet were meant to be planted on stone; dense, immovable, solid rock, not dangling in the air atop an unruly creature!”_

_The glare she gifted her mount with was returned by a wet sneeze directly into her face, provoking an aggravated moan from the dwarrowdam._

_“You see, my husband! It is not I alone who harbor such feelings!”_

_Blain laughed at that, planting a kiss on her nose as he helped her remount before swinging back aboard his own pony and kicking the shy beast into another ground-eating trot. He could not help it, he so loved her clipped eastern speech and occasional odd phrasing! Her people were historically more isolated, he had learned upon their visit to her home, traditionally speaking only Khuzdul until the age of forty or fifty when they would begin to learn Westron, Middle Earth’s common language. That this was the exact opposite of their current practice in Khazad-dûm, where Khuzdul was jealously guarded for use in private or in rituals._

_Of course, the kingdom under the Misty Mountains was also fast becoming a center of trade, with up to four or five different languages heard in the great market on any day, even elves being tolerated. The merchants and diplomats had both recently petitioned the king to bar the teaching of Khuzdul to any outsider, no matter how much a part of the city they became, without the express permission of the King’s Council, preferring to have one language that others could not overhear and understand. Of course, the priests of Mahal had been quick to seize upon the excuse, suddenly citing previously obscure texts as saying that Mahal meant the language for dwarrow alone._

_“Aye, and I know the Stonefoot opinion on ponies, too, so you needn’t say it! One end drools and bites, the other stinks and kicks, and the middle is none too comfortable, either!”_

_Frey’s answering laugh was a full-throated expression of joy that echoed back from the nearby rocky cliffs, not some nervous twitter or tiny squeak that was all the rage with the ladies of men and had recently jumped to dwarrow as well. As Blain’s own mirth bubbled over, unable to be contained any longer in the presence of his lady’s own, he could only wonder at the good fortune that made this dwarrowdam his wife. Who would have imagined that an arranged marriage, sought to mix blood ties with those of diplomacy, could turn out to be one of deep love?_

_He had grown up knowing that the nephew of a king, no matter how far down the line of succession, had value, especially for Durin’s Folk, the most prosperous of all dwarrow, and that it would almost certainly mean he would not be free to choose his own mate. Resigned to the sacrifice, he had thrown himself into his craft, gaining master status before his eightieth year, hoping to use it as an escape from what would be a loveless alliance with a much younger dwarrowdam. Instead, he had not only found his match in love, but also in craft. Her etchings added beauty and style to otherwise functional weapons in a way that made even the master smiths of the elves take notice. Now, at ninety-nine, the only thing lacking was a child, but there would be plenty of time for that!_

_An hour later, as the gloom of twilight settled around them, heralding the swiftly approaching night, they paused, and Blain’s stomach knotted in a way it should not for one upon the threshold of home. Below them, the dale that usually rang with hammer and chisel working on the monument to Durin I, and the shouts of dwarrow, men, or elves lining up pack ponies and wagons sat oddly silent. A light rain pattering on the stone was the only sound, even the mountain lichen that should be a riot of color in the spring a dark, burned black smear upon the rocks._

_He had known something had to be badly amiss, of course, or his uncle never would have ordered him home before the three month long visit to his wife’s kin was complete, but what could be so drastic that it would require his presence instead of that of his three cousins, the king’s own sons and heirs? The order had borne the seal of his uncle, which meant the king himself had not unexpectedly passed, so why else-_

_A jolt between his shoulder blades knocked the air from his lungs as he was pushed hard into the pommel of the saddle, the arrow, oddly shortened, making a metallic clank as it bounced to the rock of the roadway. Even as the dwarf struggled to turn, and regain his breath, more arrows whistled through the air, deflected by the hasty raising of shields by the two guards who rode at their sides. A moment later, though, one of those dwarrow went down, limp body sprawling to the earth with an arrow protruding from his eye._

_With a roar of outrage for this attack upon the very doorstep of his home, Blain kicked his feet loose of the saddle and leapt to the ground, planting himself as he swung the great war ax off his back. A goblin, face and body twisted by disease, shrieked as his weapon bit deeply, black blood flowing from a mortal wound. Nearby, another of the creatures was wrestling with an odd weapon that looked as if someone had taken a child’s toy bow and mounted it crosswise on wood. With another guttural bellow, the dwarf ensured that the thing could not be used again, even if its bearer had lived beyond the next moment._

_The smith smiled grimly as he caught a flash of silvery-white out of the corner of his eye, Frey undoubtedly making short work of her own attackers. The mithril blade she bore would easily slice through the few bits of shoddy armor that their foes wore! Two more goblins crowded in, probably hoping to force him into leaving himself open to one while defending against the other, but dwarrow, unlike these dark creatures, were not so easily taken down._

_A swift elbow knocked one aside while the blade of his ax separated the other from its head, but before he could return to his first opponent, the goblin sprouted a sword blade through his chest. Frey’s smile as she kicked free the body was feral, daring him to object to her unsolicited aid. He contented himself with rolling his eyes in annoyance as he tossed a small dagger from his belt at the foe attempting to take his wife from behind, not interested in earning another landing on his backside during their next sparring session by saying more. He had not known how truly he wrought when he decided upon the mithril weapon as a pledging gift!_

_“Blain! Behind!”_

_The quick shout had him spinning before she completed his name, though he almost missed when the goblin was shorter than he expected. As it was, sparks flew as his ax was stopped short by the rough blade of the twisted little creature, then the shoddy iron forging gave way, spraying both combatants with shards of metal as Blain ended its life. Silence; only the harsh breathing of the three surviving dwarrow gave life to the dale. The cuts on his face and hands from the fragments of his foe’s former weapon were beginning to sting and burn, blood and water running into his right eye momentarily blinding him._

_Where were the guards of Khazad-dûm? Even if they had not been able to see the fight through the rain, they surely should have heard it!_

_“Blain? You are well?”_

_“Just a few cuts, Frey. We need to move. Now.”_

_“Aye,” The guard, an older dwarf who normally oversaw the weapons training of the youngest children, sounded grim, eyes meeting that of his charges with a deep unease. “I’ve never heard of goblins this close to the gates of the city before. Something is badly wrong here.”_

_“I know.”_

_Blain’s whisper held all of his own dark fears and nightmares as he grabbed the reins of his pony and pulled his wife up before him, glad at least two of the beasts had not bolted, though their baggage was long gone. With the click of hooves on stone the only sound, the three dwarrow rode hard for the dark, empty hole that was the eastern gate of Khazad-dûm._

The next morning, Thorin found himself standing in one of the halls leading off the stairs on the third level of Khazad-dûm, waiting as scouts forged ahead, mind still mulling over the dark memories that had haunted his dreams the night before. Dwarrow history held few legends and even fewer facts about the kings between Durin I and Durin II. What had happened that placed a nephew on the throne? Was it a warning that Thorin risked the lives of his own by continuing? Or something else?

With Kíli unable to aid them, he had decided that the safest course was to explore and secure the first three upper levels of the city, then to venture up as Kíli was able. The stairs, with their stone rent in large gashes and long fall below, were not a risk it would be worth taking. A clatter in the hall made the king glance up, pleased to see the familiar figures of Dwalin and Bofur leading the way back to their waiting lord.  
“Well?”

He blurted out, impatient with the delay caused by their insistence on him waiting until they were certain no enemies lurked nearby, and the sheer tension of recent events. The duo approaching him would shrug off his temper, having had too much exposure to it over the years. Dwalin shook his head, muscular tattooed forearms leaning comfortably on the head of his great war hammer, the metal bright and clean.

“There’s sign of recent occupation, but none of the filth stayed to greet us. It’ll take years to get rid of the stench.”

“Did ya really expect them to, with the legendary Dwalin leadin’ the way? Probably had them shakin’ in their boots and callin’ for their mamas!”

Bofur’s grin was wide, as if daring Thorin to rebuke him for the flippancy, but the king stayed silent as the large warrior next to the former toymaker snorted, answering in a dry tone.

“Orcs don’t wear boots, nor do they have mothers.”

“If orcs and the filth they leave behind are the worst we must deal with, Dwalin, I would count us blessed by Mahal indeed.”

“Aye.” His old friend acknowledged the truth of his king’s words with a sigh. “They’re hiding here somewhere, and I dislike letting them make the first move. ‘Tis likely to be ugly.”

“There is no other choice with the Western gate still barred. Nor would I split my forces more than I already have.”

“Granted the beastie in the water won’t be goin’ anywhere, but we’ll have to deal with it eventually.”

Bofur waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the damaged portal as they began to walk down the hall, dwarrow warriors pausing in their task of sifting through debris to acknowledge their monarch. These, Thorin knew, had been the main administration and training rooms for the military of the kingdom, and beyond them would be the council rooms and the original royal apartments, the king’s goal for the day.

“Aragorn and I are planning to send a team of rangers and dwarrow to drain the lake when we are closer to that end of the kingdom. They will then deal with the beast, but we must insure that it cannot make its way into Khazad-dûm through the lowest deeps first.”

“I would be on that team,” Dwalin’s deep rumble made Thorin nod in acknowledgement. The warrior may not have always gotten along with his healer cousin, but he would not allow the death to go unavenged, especially as he was denied the chance to do so for Balin. “I owe that creature a taste of iron for spilling the blood of Durin’s line.”

“Very well.”

Truthfully, Thorin was not at all surprised by the request; had planned on it, in fact. Right now, though, he had other things in mind.

“The council rooms may provoke some strong memories.”

The warrior just grunted, while the councilor nodded, suddenly thoughtful.

“What I don’t understand is what you hope to find, Thorin. Anything of value would have been looted long ago.”

"Not necessarily. There are hidden caches that can only be opened by those of Durin's blood, and one only by Durin himself. It is these that I seek."

He did not try explaining his other motivation; that since the dream-memories of the night before, he had been driven by an urge to retrace the steps of young Blain, who would become Durin II.

“My lords!”

The three dwarrow were brought to a halt by the call, a flustered young dwarf gasping a bit as he struggled to gulp air after his sprint down the corridor. Thorin paled, fear settling in his belly.

“What is it? Kíli?”

His nephew had not been the most communicative since the incident on the stairs and the injury that followed, speaking sparingly and then only to insist that he be allowed to attend the rituals for the three who had died. Fíli had been growing more agitated daily, certain that a blow-up was coming with his brother, but despairing of just what was behind it. The messenger shook his head.

"No, the prince is still resting. There has been an incident with a patrol!"

"Well, speak up, lad! What do you mean by 'incident'?"

Bofur prodded as Dwalin swung his axes loose, glancing around as if he expected enemies to appear around them at any moment.

"Attacked?"

The large dwarf demanded, scowling.

The runner shook his head again.

"No one can find them! There is no sign of attack or anything, they just didn't return!"

Dwalin instantly relaxed, scoffing.

"Idiots probably got lost! For this you bother the king? He has-"

"Dwalin." The name was not loud, but it stopped the warrior cold. The king's mind raced even as he turned to the young messenger. "You were correct to bring this to me. As there is no sign of battle, we will give them time, but keep Prince Fíli apprised of what occurs, he is in camp, and send another patrol to trace their path."

"At once, my lord."

The messenger turned, preparing to bolt once more, but Bofur grabbed him by the arm, chuckling.

"And lad, you don't need to run everywhere. Ya do no one any good if you're so out of breath they can't understand your message!" 

The lad flushed, but bobbed his head before taking off at a slightly more sedate pace. Thorin just shook his head at the energy of the young, waving his companions back toward his goal as he absently ran a hand down one wall. 

It was odd, the feelings provoked by being here were growing day by day. In his mind, he could see the beautifully woven tapestries that once covered these walls, telling the history of the dwarrow as one paced the corridor. Rich reds, blues, even purples and golds, had gleamed in the lantern light as a grandfather knelt to tell his grandson one of the many stories depicted, the dwarfling's eyes gleaming in wonder. With a shock, Thorin finally associated the emotions coursing through him as the same as when he had first stepped foot through the hidden door back into Erebor all those years ago. It was _home!_

This was where he was born to be, the place in which memories from the other Durins were fast becoming more real to him than his own childhood within Erebor. In some ways, that realization terrified him as he once again faced an assault upon the core of 'Thorin', feelings and frustrations that were not his own bending and even breaking his old thought patterns. When had he begun to regard some of the elves, especially the twin sons of Elrond, as allies or even... friends? It was difficult to sustain the hatred when an adult elf offering him a bowl of stew morphed into a child with a gap-toothed grin pushing slightly squashed dandelions into his hand, eyes full of hero-worship, a parent smiling indulgently behind. He paused to run his fingers over the soft weave of a tapestry showing elves and dwarrow working together in the smithies of the city only to gasp when he found nothing but hard stone.

"Thorin?"

Bofur's hesitant inquiry made the king smile slightly, banishing the bright colors and warm images of yesteryear back where they belonged.

"I am fine. It seems that the longer I am here, the stronger the memories grow. This corridor led to the royal apartments used by both Durin I and II."

"And this room?"

Dwalin asked, shouldering open the door with a grimace for the disgusting remnants of animal bones littering the table and words written in the Black Speech upon the walls. To Thorin, however, there were the banners of the kings of the Free Peoples lining the walls, or was it the insignia of the Seven Dwarrow Families? 

_"Durin!"_

Thorin started, stiffening as he began to discretely take note of those with him, attempting to discern if the call had been an actual one, or another memory. Movement from the corner of his eye whipped his head around, hand swiftly drawing Orcrist in one smooth motion as he turned to face the man across the stone table. He was tall, possibly taller even then Aragorn, with yellow-white hair falling about his shoulders and blue eyes as bright as sapphires. 

“Who are you, and by what right do you bear arms against the King of Khazad-dûm?”


	12. Mistakes of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some of the darker chapters of Middle Earth are revisited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

12\. Mistakes of the Past

“Who are you?”

Thorin repeated as the figure before him seemed not to hear, a hard edge to his voice that warned his patience was fast running out.

“Thorin.”

Hearing the highly uncharacteristic note of gentleness in Dwalin’s voice, the king risked a glance at his companions to find them showing no hint of alarm. At least not at a stranger in the room. No, Bofur and Dwalin were staring at him with no hint of amusement upon the toymaker’s face now, only consternation. Thorin’s head swiveled back around to find a room empty of all save a few broken chairs and the scattered bones covered in cobwebs. Sweat slicked the handle of Orcrist as he waved it vaguely at the place where he had seen the intruder.

“There was someone there, a man, I swear!”

Anger coursed through the king at the silence of the other two dwarrow, one hand batting out to send broken chair bits slamming against the far wall. How dare they doubt him now, after all they had been through together? Was he not Durin? Was he not faultless- Horrified at the thought, Thorin brought himself up short, heart beating wildly. There was no one without fault, not even Durin, despite the legends the dwarrow had long cherished; he knew this, so why had he allowed such an attitude to enter in? Troubled, the king sank down onto the only remaining upright chair, though it was missing its back. Closing his eyes, the memories and emotions swirled, carrying him far back into the past, to another king equally as troubled.

_First Age, About 590_

_“Durin, you cannot hide in your underground tunnels and ignore this any longer! Do you not know what has happened beyond your walls? Do you not care for the suffering?”_

Thorin’s hands slammed to the table top as he surged back to his feet, sending bones skittering through the vision of a man, the same one as before, returned, shouting at him. No, not a man. 

_Half-elven. Durin ground his teeth at the presumption of this upstart young lad, daring to lecture him!_

_“You presume much, mariner! Of course I care, but there is nothing I can do beyond providing safe haven for those able to make it. I will not see my people slaughtered!”_

_Eärendil snorted contemptuously, waving away the words as if mere babble._

_“The people are already being slaughtered – elf, dwarf, Edain, it matters not to Morgoth or his minions!”_

_“Melkor.”_

_“What?”_

_The tall man-elf turned to gape at him as if he had spoken a tongue foreign to Middle-Earth._

_“I said that his name is Melkor, not whatever you lot have labelled him. Use it, or get out.”_

_The words were grudging, but necessary. This stubborn child, however, was not to be so easily put off._

_“Do you side with him, then? Truly? Do you have any idea what he means to do to this world? What the taint he fostered has already done to my wife and children?”  
Durin finally met his gaze, blue to blue, both too stubborn to break and look away. Seeing the sincere desperation and emotional pain there, the dwarf finally nodded, sighing heavily. Small wonder the man came to them hidden in layers of cloaks, identity closely guarded._

_“Aye, lad, I’ve heard, and I’m sorry, but I cannot ask my people to stand with you.”_

_That broke whatever control his visitor had exhibited up until now. With tears in his eyes, Eärendil swept his arm across the table, sending metal goblets bouncing off the council room walls hard enough to dent them. Chords stood out in his muscular neck as his face reddened and twisted with the force of his grief-stricken rage as he bellowed at the king._

_“Why?! You tell me why!”_

_The guards were quick to crash into the room, but Durin only waved them off, going around to the other side of the table with a heavy step, the weight of his years dragging upon him today._

_“Sit down, lad. Such anger will harden the heart and damage the soul. No one blames you for not being there when your home was attacked. Elwing managed to escape, did she not? And your twins?”  
Eärendil slumped, one hand that had been clenched in fury moments before now cupping a head that was lowered in defeat._

_“That was not Melkor, but Maedhros and Maglor, fulfilling their cursed oath. I have been told that the boys were spared and are being treated with kindness within their captor’s household. I can do nothing more for them while Melkor yet lives to rain his fire and darkness down upon this land. So long as he holds the other two Silmarils, they have no other enemy, for the third was borne to me by my lady wife, it is beyond their ken.” His gaze snapped up to once more bore into the king’s. “We have our best chance now, while all are united against a common enemy, the kinslaying momentarily forgotten, but to have any hope of victory, I need the armies of the dwarrow!”_

_Durin sat down heavily, wracking his mind to find a way to explain the predicament Eärendil’s request placed the dwarrow in._

_“And I wish my people to live, Eärendil. You ask that I take up arms against one of the Valar when the Khazad only live on the sufferance of those very beings! You forget that we are not like you. We were never meant to be, and that gift of life can be as easily stripped from us if we dare to raise a hand against them!”_

_“Yet your brothers in the west led their people into two of the greatest battles!”_

_Durin grimaced, having known the other would bring this up. The actions of his brothers, the fathers of the Broadbeams and Firebeards, were often whispered as justification for why they should risk the very thing the mariner now asked, but as with most things in life, it was more complicated then they realized._

_“Aye, against Melkor’s lieutenants only, and both paid with their lives! Azaghâl, at least, should have known better than to take such a risk, but he knew only the Khazad would be able to stand against the fire of Glaurung. I cannot, I will not, ask my entire race to march to their deaths! Which is what it would be without the permission of the other Valar! ”_

_Eärendil’s eyes narrowed, a calculating look coming into them that Durin did not care for at all._

_“And if I were to win the hand of the Valar themselves to our aid? Would you then stand with us, Durin King, High Lord of the Dwarrow?”_

_Durin recoiled, horrified at the realization of what the young mariner proposed._

_“You are mad, boy! The punishment for setting foot upon Valinor is death! Would you leave your children orphaned?”_

_“They will be cared for by kin if we cannot. I see no other path to end this madness! Now… Will you pledge to me the might of the dwarrow if I succeed?”_

_Durin sighed, standing strong even as his heart whispered that he would not see such foolish bravery again. And wondered if Middle-Earth would prove deserving of the sacrifice._

_“Aye, you have my word. Should you bring the Valar to aid us, every dwarrow of all seven kingdoms who can bear arms will stand with you, Eärendil the Mariner.”_

_The man nodded, satisfied, weary steps a bare whisper on the stone as he left the room. Durin stood for a moment in the silence, wondering if he would ever see the fool again, and praying that he would._

_“The blessings of Mahal go with you, lad. You’ll need it.”_

The room seemed to ripple and change around the king, banners appearing behind each chair as if by magic. With widened eyes, Thorin took in the symbols of the seven families, the dwarrow seated there each examining a ring. Glancing down, he had to physically restrain himself from tearing the familiar, gaudy thing from his own hand, revulsion rising within. As fingers pressed together, he could have sworn he felt the cold edge of the metal and the heavy weight of the stone within even as something nagged…

_Second Age, About 1550_

_Durin III frowned at the ring upon his finger, trying to decide just why it made him so uneasy. Celebrimbor had made it himself, after all, not that too pretty stranger the king could not help distrusting, no matter how taken with him the elves seemed. He had been asked when this whole thing began how many should be made, and answered seven without pausing to think. Seven was a sacred number for the dwarrow, after all, not like the unlucky thirteen._

_To them, thirteen was the worst number of all, for it signified the Seven Dwarrow Fathers with only six of the dwarrowdams; the seventh, the wife of the Blacklock Father, had been lost to treachery early in the First Age. True, the culprits had been caught and cast out, becoming the petty dwarves, for no true dwarrow would claim them, but the number had forever become associated with evil doings and dark tidings, to the point where dwarrow would do anything to avoid it. Take, for instance, the levels that he was in the process of adding to Khazad-dûm – the sixth and seventh levels up would be completed at the same time to avoid the kingdom ever possessing that ill-fated number._

_So what was it about this ring, made and gifted by a trusted friend, which set him to contemplating such ill numbers?_

Thorin swallowed hard, iron will literally grasping the memory and thrusting it far from him as the wreckage around him became more solid than dream once more. 

“Thorin, look at this!”

Bofur’s eyes were wide, staring at the scrawl of something upon the far wall. Standing, the king made his way over to his friend, jaw tightening as he drew closer and realized that the ink used looked to have been blood, and not all of it the black of the dark creatures. Atop some of the Black Speech was another symbol, unfortunately all too familiar recently.

“The Death Warriors.”

_Third Age, 1_

_Durin IV ground his teeth as he glared at the dwarrow surrounding him, daring any to contradict the evidence he had just laid out, the damning symbol written in dwarrow blood. What excuses would be offered now, with such clear proof at last placed before them? The Broadbeam, Firebeard, and Stonefoot kings all looked as disgusted as he was, but the other three… One hand clenched in frustration, but the other no longer could, an iron facsimile in place of the limb that had been there only last year._

_Iron Hand, they had begun to call him, but he would show them another reason for the name!_

_“I will have each and every head of the cult members within the kingdoms, let none escape! I want this evil mined from the depths!”_

_“Durin, we cannot simply-“_

_The objection was cut off by the slam of iron on stone. He was done with listening to platitudes and whining, they would remember the pledge to follow Durin in all things affecting the seven kingdoms as a whole or he would remind them with steel!_

_“I do not wish to hear excuses, I wish to hear results! If you must strip every dwarf in your kingdoms to find their wretched sign, then so be it!”_

_With that, the king stormed from the room, heedless of the consternation he had left in his wake._

“We knew them to be here.”

Thorin breathed, blinking away the rage of another time and life, though he could well understand it.

“Some of these bones are of men.”

A solid thud resounded through the room as Dwalin cast away one of the offending objects in disgust.

“Old or new?”

There had been men in the kingdom often enough, mostly merchants, but a few who actually lived among the dwarrow, adopting their customs. Some had been refugees, others, smiths who sought to learn the secrets of the dwarrow even knowing that they would then never be allowed to take them outside the mountains. There had also been the envoys of their allies, of course, so it was conceivable that some became trapped within when the Balrog drove the dwarrow out.

“New. I think we found our treasure hunters.”

Dwalin held out a coin to him, which held the clear profile of Gondor’s current king, but as the dwarrow king took it, he realized that the blood had cemented two together. Flipping it, his stomach dropped, for this was no mere coin, one of thousands minted in a king’s reign, but a token, of which only seven were minted to honor a new dwarf lord. This one shown in his hand, the mithril highlighting the etching still bright despite the years, symbols of a long dead owner teasing at his memory.

_Third Age, 1713_

_Durin V slumped, hand laying limp atop the list as he stared sightlessly at the far wall of the chamber. Though no longer the main council chamber, this conference room was preferred by the military as it sat just down the hall from the rooms taken by the generals. Unfortunately, that usually meant only the worst news was presented to the king here, making him always dread setting foot inside, and it certainly lived up to that dreaded purpose today. He could almost see the beast in his mind’s eye, scaled body twisting and writhing as lethal jaws snapped with bone crushing force._

_Scatha, a fire-drake, though flightless._

_The worst fear of any dwarf, and the source of many a tale to frighten children, had just come to life in the north, seizing several dwarrow settlements and amassing a huge treasure pile. He was ambushing any who came near without remorse, including their allies among the Eotheod, and they could do little to stop him._

_The king had sent a troop of one hundred armed with some of their best weaponry, including a mobile windlass crossbow and arrows tipped with mithril in hopes of felling the beast. That had been six weeks ago, however, and no word had returned… until now. A patrol of men had snuck close to Scatha’s lair only to stumble upon the remains of his warriors. Now, the list of the dead stared at him in accusation, whispering that he should never have let them attempt such foolhardiness, a bloodstained gold token carried by the leader the only remains to show grieving families._

_“My lord?”_

_The quiet intrusion by his aide received only a rude grunt in reply._

_“Durin, the council wishes to know if we mount a full army against the dragon.”_

_“With what?” He laughed bitterly, “I already sent the best weaponry we have. What chance do we have against one of the creatures who took down mighty Gondolin? No, I will waste no more lives. Pull the remaining settlements from the Grey Mountains, let the beast sit and rot!”_

_The king waved the other dwarf away, unable to abide a witness to his grief and despair, the round medallion biting into his hand. He would have to ask, but he doubted Fris would deny him the honor of mounting this into the wall of the conference room as a remembrance of her husband and those lost with him. It was unusual that such a memorial would be made here instead of in the halls of the dead deep below them, but Durin wanted all whose greed called for risking the attentions of those foul creatures in the north to remember the price paid._

_This should have been the age of might for the great kingdom, with Sauron gone and his people at peace, but it was not to be. First had come the dragons, with their tricks and impenetrable hides, stealing what was not theirs. Then, the Witch-King of Angmar, a seemingly greedy mortal king whom none could kill, or even face. He had destroyed the remaining kings of the Dúnedain and their kingdoms, the once mighty descendants of Numeanor, though the elves had been able to drive dark king off at the last._

_However, they had not killed him, and every year new rumors surfaced of the tall form being seen and the death that followed. He was not the only one, either. Black cloaked figures had appeared throughout the lands, leaving death and despair in their wake. None knew how many there were, some saying one, others more, but Durin had been keeping careful tally of the sightings, and they appeared in too many places to be all the same, be he man or creature. In fact, if his information was accurate, there seemed to be nine of the things._

_Idly, the king twisted the ring he so rarely wore on his finger, then stopped, gut twisting as horror overwhelmed his grief. Nine…_

A hand on his shoulder and a voice in his ear made Thorin gasp, coin and token clenched tight in his fist, turning to face his old friend with more than a hint of annoyance. There was something here he needed to know, he just had to sort through the overwhelming flood of memories until he found it!

“What is it, Dwalin?”

The warrior merely raised an eyebrow at him for snapping before giving his king a bit of his own bite.

“I feared you would repeat the prince’s little trick from last night.”

Thorin gave a short, sharp nod, accepting the gentle guidance of his two friends as they had him sit back upon his previous seat. Truthfully, the memories he was attempting to sort through were overwhelming him, making him lose where the other Durins stopped and ‘Thorin’ began, a very disconcerting feeling at best. He closed his eyes and swallowed heavily, fighting the boulders of years past that threatened to bury him. 

Something nudged his hand and he glanced down to find Bofur offering a water skin. He gave the other dwarf a faint smile, raising it to his lips only to almost choke on the strong bite of liquor on his tongue. He gulped, feeling the warmth run down to his stomach and spread, relaxing him, even as he spared a reproachful look for the unrepentant councilor. Bringing ale when they were to be alert at all times!

“Thank you, Bofur, I needed that.” The king gazed around, the wreckage flickering with images of the room in its prime. “There is something important here, I just need to find it!”

“It’s near supper, Thorin. We need to return.”

“Aye, there’s nothin’ more to be done today, and the lads will be looking for you.” Bofur appealed, taking back the waterskin and stowing it on his belt, though not before taking a healthy swig himself.

For a moment, the king considered dismissing the other two dwarrow and staying to continue his search, but a rumble reminded him that while he may be the reincarnation of Durin, he still needed to eat.

“Fine. Order this room sealed. I want nothing touched until I can return tomorrow. Did our missing patrol turn up?”

“No.”

That single word held all of the fears that haunted Thorin’s nightmares, mind already racing with different plans for going forward from here if the worst possibility should prove true.


	13. Mellon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a friendship is renewed and a mistake revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos! Alert: There is Tauriel ahead, but she will only be a minor character, and not a romantic interest for Kili (He's married!).

13\. Mellon

Kíli woke slowly to the pounding in his head and the ache of limbs that had lain too long in one position. He groaned, unwilling to open his eyes even as he fought to move a protesting body around to another, more comfortable sleeping place. Hands aided him to turn onto his side, straightening an uncooperative leg and untangling blankets. How many times in the long night and early morning had he come to the edge of wakefulness like this? Would the torment never end? He did not wish to discuss what had happened, did not want the opinion of every friend and relation here! Whomever was at his side this time, however, did not speak or prod at him, so he was certain it must be Fíli. He was about to mumble a thank you to his brother when a decidedly feminine voice answered someone farther away.

“I do not know. Fíli said only that he must attend to something for Thorin and that he would return as soon as possible.”

Kili's eyes flew open only to slam shut again as the light burned, making everything dance crazily in and out of focus. The hands on him stopped the gentle soothing circles they had been rubbing on his back, and he groaned again, wishing she would resume but unable to muster the energy to say as much.

"Kíli?"

"Hmmm?"

He did not dare to open his mouth as his stomach threatened to rebel. More hands were on him, lifting and turning him so that he was partially upright against what felt like several packs.

"Kíli,” It was another vaguely familiar voice, but he could not think through the pounding of his head. "I want you to sip slowly. It will aid in settling your stomach and dulling the pain."

That sounded good. Obediently, he opened his mouth to allow the liquid to be tipped into it, the flavor of rich peppermint masking other, less tasty herbs. Initially, he feared what the peppermint might do to an already rocky stomach, but it almost instantly settled and he sighed, relaxing as his body unknotted muscles that had been tensed. Cautiously, he cracked open his eyes, gazing around as the light now appeared tolerable.

There was a man crouched on his left, watching him with the assessing gaze of a healer. Wyvern! Kili's memory kicked up the name, though the man certainly did not look like the young lad he remembered from fourteen years ago. Unwilling to tackle that problem, he allowed his head to loll to the right, breath catching at the sight of auburn hair and delicate features that belied the strength residing in the elf maiden.

"Tauriel?"

The perpetually young elf ducked her head, smile a bit strained. Kíli closed his eyes again as the pain in his head throbbed with each breath, mind instantly supplying images of her grief at the lives lost in Bolg's attack upon Thranduil's halls. Glancing back at her, he could not help the shame and hurt that showed in his eyes, though she obviously misunderstood, making as if to rise.

"Fíli asked that I stay with you while he was busy, but I can find another-"

"No!" The word exploded from him before he could censure himself and he winced. "I mean- I understand why you would not wish to be around me."

One elegant eyebrow raised in mystification.

"I do not understand. It is I who was unable to attend your wedding and avoided speaking with you here. These are not the actions worthy one you would call friend, but those of a coward. I confess that I feared to face you."  
"I - I didn't- Legolas told me Thranduil wouldn't-"

He broke off, growling in frustration at his inability to put together an articulate sentence. This stammering and blushing was a far way from the brash young dwarf who challenged her to find out what was down his pants! Thankfully, Fíli was not around to hear such floundering or he would never stop the teasing! This was definitely not like him, but the concussion combined with a lingering embarrassment over a youthful infatuation did not lend itself to coherency. He wanted only for her to leave him alone in his present misery, for she should not bear the guilt. Perhaps that was why he blurted what he did next.

"I am not deserving of friendship when it was I whose stupid, drunken words brought the orcs down upon us all!" 

Horrified at allowing to slip the mistake that had been haunting him for so long, he gagged, coughing at the bile in his throat before leaning into the supporting hands to throw up the herbs he had just been given. His hands clenched at his hair, pulling as his skull throbbed, spikes of pain that came with every spasm of his stomach adding to his torment. He could hear a soft discussion between the other two and felt Tauriel begin to rise from her seat next to him. Panicked, he willed his body to move, grabbing her wrist in a lunge that brought cries of alarm from both of them.

"Kíli! You should not-"

"Please!" He squeezed it out with his eyes closed, body trembling. "Please do not tell anyone!"

A hand gently removed his, easing him back down. 

"Rest, Prince Kíli. I will not betray your secret."

There was something in her voice... Doubt? Anger? He could not decide, nor care, as Wyvern began to poke and prod, asking him distractingly simple questions that he occasionally fumbled anyway. At last allowed to slide into renewed slumber, his dreams haunted by that one long-ago moment that he was so desperate to forget.

_Ered Luin, Third Age 2941_

_Kíli raised his head to glance blurrily around the busy tavern as he slammed his empty ale flagon back onto the table. This was one of the outer areas of the dwarrow city nestled in the ruins of Belegost, so there were even a few men around. Unfortunately, there were not any of the others who had signed up to go with his uncle, not even the ever cheery and rarely sober Bofur, so Kíli had been drowning his nerves with precious little to distract him until the place became too full for him to continue enjoying a private table._

_Across from him, the other dwarf, a stranger, gave a satisfied belch and wiped his streaming mouth and beard on a dirty, travel-worn sleeve as Kíli regarded him thoughtfully. As the son of Princess Dis, there were not many of the exile community in Ered Luin unknown to him now, which made his current drinking companion much more engaging then rehashing worries about the morning._

_"You're not from around here, are you?"_

_The other dwarf snorted, sending a bit of foam flying over the rough pine table as he refilled his cup from the pitcher a server had just left._

_"Nope. Can't say as I ever wish to come back, either. No offense lad. Dwarrow weren't meant for tumbling down ruins and played out mines! That king of yours needs to sharpen his ax, find a few good strong lads, and smack that overgrown lizard in Erebor right on the nose! That's how we'd deal with it in the East!"_

_The dwarf laughed raucously, slapping his knee and jostling the table hard enough to splash ale out of the flagons. Suddenly, he sobered, making a show of glancing around before waggling a finger sloppily in Kili's face. Normally, such a move would have had the fiery young prince grabbing it in anger, but the ale had mellowed his emotions to a pleasant buzz of unconcern._

_"Now, don't you go telling everyone that I'm from the east, mind. You westerners are too prickly and suspicious for a poor merchant who don't mean no harm." His eyes crinkled into a grin as he swayed a bit. "'Less you have a few pretty 'dams around here with long beards who'd like a taste of eastern meat! Now, young lad, I've shared my secret, how about yours? Fair trade, after all!"_

_Kíli leaned forward, the words of his uncle ghosting through his mind._

_'Remember, both of you, no one must know of this beyond your mother and the company! No one!'_

_He snorted to himself, taking another long draught of ale. Like no one would notice Thorin Oakenshield, his nephews, and four prominent cousins all gone at the same time! Granted, Dwalin had been gone for six months already, Balin for one, and Thorin left a week ago, but still- What was the harm? The brunette leaned forward._

_"Aye, I'll tell you a secret! You easterners aren't the only ones who know how to deal with a dragon! Soon, we'll be having this conversation in Erebor, just you wait and see!" It was then that Kili's sense of caution, so often absent, kicked in and he tried for a casual shrug. "'Course, that has nothing to do with me! I'm off on another turn at caravan duty. Boring, really, that. All that mud, dust, and stupid men!"_

_A hand landed heavily on his shoulder, squeezing just short of the point of pain as an arm hooked under his, hoisting him up out of the seat._

_"That's right, little brother, and if we're to be up to leaving with the caravan in the morning, we'd best go home and sleep!"_

_Fíli’s cheerful grin was entirely false and Kíli knew he was in for a lecture when they got home. His older brother had told him not to go out, refused to go with him, and now might have witnessed him disobeying their uncle's strict orders! Guiltily, Kíli cast a glance back at the dwarf he had been drinking with just in time to see him straighten and mutter to himself with none of the drunken slurring that had been there moments ago._

_"Of course you need your rest, young prince, but there are no merchant trains leaving for at least a week."_

"Kíli?"

Blinking, he turned his aching head to the side to find Senata watching him worriedly. In all the years after that night, Fíli had never said anything about overhearing what he had actually been telling his drinking companion, nor had they seen the mystery dwarf again. That did not ease Kili's conscience, however, and he had vowed never to drink so much again, stopping when he felt only a pleasant buzz instead. Given his normally boisterous façade, he doubted anyone but Fíli, and possibly Thorin, had noticed. A rustle of clothing on his other side alerted him to the return of Wyvern, bearing a steaming cup, this time smelling strongly of chicken. He was about to refuse, recalling the unfortunate return of the last thing he had tried drinking, when his stomach gave a low rumble.

“I think this may aid with that. I mixed some valerian root in, as well.”

Kíli scowled at the man, having become all too familiar with the uses of that particular root over the last fourteen years, though he took the cup and began sipping at it.

“Just woke up.”

He grumbled into it, gasping as the words made some of the hot broth splash up onto his upper lip. Truthfully, he was not adverse to sleeping the day away as it would allow him to avoid any more awkward moments with a certain elf, but he was not about to go around admitting it! Senata huffed in a manner so reminiscent of Óin that the prince could not stop a slightly nostalgic grin, earning an eye roll from the healer. It felt good to break his self-imposed silence, though there was still a little darting worm of guilt, as well.

 

“You could do with some more, and do not think those pleading eyes will do you any good, my lord prince! If you behave, I just might let you sit up and talk with the others tonight, but not a minute before!”

“Fine.”

His bitter answer was accompanied by a most unprincely tongue stuck out at the offending dwarrowdam. With his own young son and nephew several hundred miles away, he saw no need to belabor appropriate adult behavior when he was being treated like an erring child! Kíli quickly finished the mug, grimacing at the familiar slightly loopy feel of the valerian root before acceding to Wyvern’s urging and lying back down to sleep.


	14. The Oldest Medicine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is much laughter and telling of tales.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
> 
> Author's Note: Don't read this chapter while eating, drinking, or in someplace where it is inappropriate to laugh loudly. You have been warned! ; >

14\. The Oldest Medicine

When Kíli opened his eyes later that evening, it was to find that his quiet corner had been invaded. The first emotion was hot anger and resentment as everyone was laughing. Had they no consideration for the wounded, carrying on as if he were not even there? What if he had wanted only to be left alone to sleep? From where he lay next to Fíli, he could see Thorin, Bofur, Dwalin, Kifir, Gimli, Lis, Therin, Frodo, Nast, Legolas and Tauriel as well.

The next, however, was sheer relief in such waves that it almost made his head spin more than the concussion had. Whether he had merely dreamed of spilling his secret to Tauriel or not, he didn’t know, but she had obviously not spoken of it to anyone else, or they would not be willingly around him now. For most serious transgressions, dwarrow practiced shunning instead of imprisonment or physical punishment, and telling the enemy of his uncle’s plans to retake Erebor, no matter how innocently, was definitely serious enough to merit it, whether he was a prince or not. Only treason, murder, and rape were punishable by execution in dwarrow society, and only because vast experience had taught that the perpetrators of such crimes were a threat to the innocent for as long as they lived.

Of course, Kíli had been practicing his own form of self-punishment since realizing what he had inadvertently done, though it had not been a conscious choice upon his part. He had been slowly withdrawing from many of his old friends, and assigning himself the most onerous duties he could, the very image of an austere, self-sacrificing ruler. That had been disrupted by his unplanned dip into love.  
In fact, he had known he was in trouble the very first time he met Vestri, so from the second time, he began deliberately starting fights with her to push her away. That had actually worked for six long, torturous months, until they were stuck waiting in a room for their respective siblings and she had begun screaming at him, asking why he felt such a need to anger her. Unable to deny it any longer, he had finally broken down and told her as tears streamed down her face and he felt like the lowest creature upon Middle Earth. 

He had also told her the truth about why he felt he was unworthy of such love. That had earned him a black eye, the lady in question definitely possessing her father’s renowned temper, but not for the act, for believing that it was necessary to punish himself in the first place and for putting her through the months of anguish. She had been working to force him into seeing that his self-imposed punishment did not preclude happiness with his family, but he adamantly refused to speak with Thorin or Fíli about the true reason for his attitude. Nor had Vestri interfered with what he saw as his duty as the chosen of the Arkenstone, supporting his coming to Khazad-dûm even when she alone knew the full depths of what he would suffer mentally and physically by doing so. She had, however, extracted a solemn promise not to spurn the aid of Fíli and the healers, as well as to be careful.

Thinking of his fiery wife brought a small smile to the prince’s face as he marveled once more at the luck he had to find a dwarrowdam such as her. His brother’s voice broke him from his ruminations just in time to catch the end of his sentence and the eruption of renewed laughter from the company as Fíli sat somewhat red-faced in the firelight.

“-that’s why I’m not allowed to make anything in the kitchen ever again.”

“Very good, cousin, but you’ll have to do better than that to win this round.” 

Gimli was chuckling as he slowly roasted a bit of sausage over the fire, his wife snuggled into his side trying to stifle her giggles. Kíli perked up, interested despite himself, slowly hoisting himself to a seated position as Fíli immediately turned around and fussed with his pillows. The others had fallen silent, apprehensively watching him while trying to appear that they were not and Kayli sighed, knowing he needed to reach out lest they worry more and speak of sending him home again. Kifir appeared with another bowl of chicken broth, which the prince began sipping on as he regarded the others, flashing what he hoped was an approximation of his usual grin.

“So, what’s the challenge tonight?”

This was a tradition that had begun back in Minas Tirith, when he and Fíli were still bed bound and Thorin not even coherent with a high fever and infected wound. To keep the princes occupied, members of the Fellowship of the Ring had taken to congregating in their rooms, challenging one another to relate some incident in their lives. The best so far had been the recounting of the best pranks they had each pulled, though it was still annoying that Legolas had won that round!

“Embarrassing moments, the more public, the better. I went first.”

Fíli informed him, one hand automatically going to his brother’s forehead to check for fever, which Kíli decided to ignore.

“And your Durin’s Day cooking disaster was the best you could come up with? I’m disappointed in you, brother. I know our cousin has one better than that, for the stones showed me on the stairs.”

He grinned as Gimli gaped, turning pale, then a red that was fast approaching the color of his beard.

“Y-you didn’t!”

The redhead sputtered, while Frodo and Legolas both hastily covered growing smiles. Therin leaned forward, eyes gleaming as he grinned at his pledge-brother.

“Well, give, Gimli. What happened?”

The dwarf in question huffed, gazing around as if seeking someone to step in and relieve him of the need to relate the memory, but no one did.

“Fine. But this is under strenuous protest!”

“C’mon, Gimli, that’s not how this works, and you know it! Or perhaps you would rather we ask Legolas and Frodo…?”

Bofur smile widened along with his eyes as the councilor attempted to seem innocent and helpful, something all among this group well knew he was not, Kíli was sure. His last avenue of escape cut off, their victim hastily shook his head.

“NO! No, I’ll tell it. Hold your horses. Just as well, since my most embarrassing moment came right here in Khazad-dûm. We were fleeing from those cursed goblins down the stairs and part of it crumbled in front of me. I started to fall, only to have Legolas grab hold and pull me back.”

“I fail to see how that’s embarrassing.” Dwalin growled, eyeing his younger cousin sternly. “You’re still cheating.”

“He…um…grabbedmebythebeard!”

The ending was spat out in such a rush that it took a moment for Kíli to sort out the sounds into intelligible words instead of a lump of gibberish, even though he already had an idea as to what the other dwarf must have said. He felt his lips twitch even as his head gave a warning lurch not to laugh all that hard. He needed this! To just relax, banishing not only the images of the dead from him, but his fears as well! Around him, the company erupted in shocked shouts and laughter as most of the others also caught on, poor Gimli going even redder at the good-natured teasing. After one particularly sharp remark from Dwalin, the redhead scowled at his cousin.

“’Tis not half as embarrassing as what your brother did, so just- just-“

“Oh ho, but that is a good one, lads, and done by our own Balin, no less!”

It was obvious that Bofur knew exactly what Gimli was referring to, being quick to take up the narrative as he grinned wickedly at all around the fire.

“That wasn’t intentional, Bofur!”

Nast instantly objected.

“So? That was never one of the rules, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t.” Thorin’s deep voice cut in decisively. “Besides, I would like to hear what my cousin did that would qualify for this round.”

“You’ll enjoy it, Thorin, make no mistake.” Bofur sounded entirely too cheerful, making Fíli turn and mouth ‘Uh oh’ at his brother. “It has to do with your young namesake, Dain's son, Thorin. I don’t know that you and the lads have had time to look over the records for what happened immediately after the Battle of the Five Armies, but our young prince earned his name there. He was hit hard enough over the head with an orc mace to lay out many a less stout dwarrow, but continued to fight as if he didn’t even feel it, so Dain proclaimed him ‘Thorin Stonehelm.’ Now, some of us were a wee bit put out with our new king after all was said and done, especially when young Thorin started to make some less than diplomatic remarks about our lads over there. Óin heard about it and muttered that the boy didn’t have a head injury because his entire head, not his helm, was made of granite. Naturally enough, some of the other youngsters, including our Gimli here, picked up on it. Now, it might have ended there, but about six months later-“

“That’s because the fool’s head _was_ stone!”

Gimli muttered loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Hush, lad, I’m just getting to the good part.” Bofur cleared his throat and stood, one hand going into the front of his tunic. “About six months later, Balin was introducing the royals to some folks from Gondor and the Stonefoot clan.” His voice turned more serious, doing a rather impressive imitation of the older dwarf. “And let me make known to you our Crown Prince, Thorin III Stonehead… er…Helm.”

Laughter erupted and Kíli grabbed his head, wishing the mirth did not hurt so much, it felt so good to allow his worries to slip aside and just enjoy himself.

“Ow…” He could not help the low moan even as he smiled, “So what happened next? Did Dain ever forgive Balin?”

“’Course he did.” Dwalin grunted, ignoring the wounded look of their interrupted storyteller. “But the next morning there was a proclamation that from now on, the lad’s name was Thorin Stronghelm. Who’s next?”  
Bofur made a show of scanning the others before grinning wickedly at the princely brothers. 

“Kíli, I think. C’mon, lad, give, I know you have plenty of less than well thought out shenanigans in your past. Certainly one ended in a way to leave ya blushin’!”

Kíli grimaced, wishing his councilor had left him out of this one. He had just begun to truly relax, and now he wanted the prince to embarrass himself! As his eyes slid past the hatted dwarf, however, they lit upon Dwalin and he relaxed, a small smile playing on his lips as he caught sight of one particular tattoo, a small war hammer near the warrior’s temple. That would be safe enough. Making a show of reluctance, Kíli fidgeted before clearing his throat.

“Fine, if none will take pity upon the wounded. When I first began training, Dwalin thought to try me with a war hammer. It didn’t go so well.”

“That would be the understatement of the age!”

Dwalin grumbled, fingering the spot Kíli had previously been staring at.

“I, um, may have not seen Dwalin coming up behind me and decided just then to try a fancy move I had seen some others doing where you swing it over your head to take out an enemy behind… Just to see what it would be like, you understand. I wasn’t daydreaming or anything of that ilk-“

“Knocked me clean out!”

The warrior chucked a piece of bread at the prince, who ducked, laughing a bit before it morphed into a wince.

“At least you did not shoot your king in the butt with an arrow.”

Legolas’ dry statement brought a moment of stunned silence as every head swiveled to stare at him in shocked disbelief. It was Tauriel, however, who was turning as red as her hair, glaring at the elven prince even as he smirked at her.

“Legolas! You swore never to speak of that again!”

“Let me get this straight, lass.” Bofur leaned forward, intent. “You shot King Thranduil in his ass with an arrow?”

“I… Yes. I was quite young, less than a hundred, and it was my first lesson with a bow.”

“I’m amazed she’s still alive.”

Dwalin muttered to Thorin, just loudly enough for the rest to hear it in the brief conversational lull. The king nodded before tilting his head at Therin, Lis, and Frodo, who were carrying on a whispered conversation of their own.

“And what is this? My niece and nephew conspiring with a hobbit?”

Therin flushed, shooting up straight and Kíli almost groaned. It seemed that his younger brother was pricklier than a porcupine lately, but instead of getting indignant, the prince grinned.

“Sorry, uncle, we were debating who was going to relate our little incident. This is for all three of us, and Merry and Pippin.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

Gimli grumbled, giving the young hobbit a fond look before turning a slightly sterner glare upon his wife and marriage-brother. Bofur grinned across at them.

“Was the Shire still standing when you lot were done, lad?”

“The Shire was, Hobbiton market, however… After Frodo came to live in BagEnd with us, Bilbo usually allowed us to have market day to ourselves provided we didn’t cause trouble. On this particular day, Merry and Pippin had come for a visit, so we were showing them around.”

“They challenged my dear twin to prove how much stronger than a hobbit we dwarrow are.”

Lis interjected somewhat tartly.

“So we went around lifting things. A pumpkin, the lace maker’s table, Farmer Wart’s pig, that sort of thing. Pippin decided those weren’t hard enough and asked if I could pull the wooden support for one of the market tents from the ground. I, um, did, but lost my balance in the mud.”

“The whole tent went over, hit the next one, and that one hit the one after that…” Frodo rolled his eyes, sharing grins with his fellow culprits. “It might have ended with only a bit of a mess if Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had not panicked and thrown her umbrella. It came down upon the pig, which bolted, knocking her into the pond in front of the Green Dragon!”

“I thought Mother was going to come all the way from Erebor and drag us home by our ears when she heard!”

Therin’s rueful mutter, directed at the floor as he would not raise his head, set the entire company to laughing.

“You are not the only one to run afoul of Dis’ temper, lad.”

At Dwalin’s words, Thorin’s eyebrows shot up, looking incredulous, and received a somewhat reluctant nod in return. Kíli could almost hear them talking through that short, silent conversation; ‘Are you really going to tell them? Might as well.’ His uncle and the armsmaster were closer than some brothers, even among dwarrow, a look sufficing where most would have needed speech to understand. He and Fíli would do it often enough, as did Vestri and Austri, driving poor Dis to distraction if she was in the vicinity. The warrior cleared his throat, all eyes suddenly upon him.

“This happened when I was a child in Erebor. Glóin and Frérin had been told by their older brothers that they were too young to take part in the war games that day, and Balin tasked me with watching them. So, we decided to prove how well we had learned about ambushes. Frérin found some rotten tomatoes from the rubbish heap, and we were waiting around a corner when we heard what we thought was Thorin, Balin and Óin returning from the training area and threw.”

“You couldn’t have missed!”

Kifir blurted out, eyes wide as he leaned forward. Thorin let out a snort, exchanging another glance with his shield brother.

“No, they did not, but Balin, Óin and I had been delayed.”

“Who did you hit, then?”

Bofur asked, a wide grin on his face as his eyes glittered in merriment. It was not often that anyone could persuade Dwalin to tell such tales! The warrior scowled at his old companion, but decided to answer, Thorin’s lips already twitching suspiciously.

“Thrór and Thrain, who had Dis in his arms dressed in some frock she had just gotten from Dale.”

Kíli could not imagine his grandfather and great-grandfather, both of whom he only knew through stories, standing there with rotten tomato running down their faces, but his mother! Oh, he could well imagine the screech that Dwalin would have been treated to, even with her still a small child! And from Lis’ scowl and Therin’s horrified face, so could they! Thorin was already laughing, however, and the others soon joined in, finally sobering a bit when Fíli managed to gasp out a question.

“Who’s next?”

“The elven princeling.”

Dwalin instantly answered, face still a bit red and thunderous. Legolas merely raised an eyebrow, pursing his lips as he thought about his answer.

“That would have been in Rivendell, and like you, involved a maneuver I witnessed in practice. Glorfindel, who served as arms master for Lord Elrond, would challenge his warriors by proposing unusual training circumstances; in this case, a frozen pond and surrounding snowy hills. As I watched, I saw one of the warriors slide down the embankment and under an opponent, catching him unawares. Now, I could not try this outside as I was forbidden to go alone and had no wish for an audience should I fail, so I found the closest slick sloping surface instead – one of the banisters on the stair in the library wing. I found my balance and began sliding only to realize someone was ascending. While attempting to jump off, I slipped, sliding the rest of the way down only to have my leggings hook upon the bottom of the banister and partially rip, leaving me hanging in front of the ones I had heard. Which was, naturally enough, my father, Lord Elrond, and Lord Glorfindel.”

“By my beard, I’m actually beginning to like you, elf!”

Dwalin spluttering, slapping a knee hard as he almost tipped over backwards as he roared with mirth.

“Aye, I’d like to see anyone top that one!” Gimli grinned at his friend.

“Bofur!”

Fíli merrily called out the next to relate their tale to the scowl of the councilor.

“I already-“

“That was Balin, not you. Doesn’t count.”

Dwalin was quick to point out, scarred eyebrow raising pointedly at the other dwarf. Bofur shook his head, setting his hat’s flaps to bouncing up and down.

“Now, I don’t know that I have-“

Thorin snorted.

“Yes, you do. I seem to recall a particular incident at your brother’s pledging.”

“Thorin! That was an accident!”

“What did he do?” Fíli was quick to ask his uncle, though it was the still sputtering councilor who answered.

“I may have, accidently, mind you, backed into a bit too close proximity to one of the lamps, well, it was really more of a torch as it didn’t have-“

“Bofur!”

Several voices rang out together, making the dwarf huff.

“Fine. I set fire to me hat.”

Two heartbeats, and the company was roaring with laughter, but not before a rueful mutter was heard, though none would ever admit to being the speaker.

“Well, he won that one.”


	15. Friend or Foe?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which arguments abound and a bit more is revealed from the Book of Mazarbul...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

15\. Friend or Foe?

It was well into mid-morning of the next day before Thorin, Bofur, and Dwalin were able to make their way through camp toward the stairs and the council room they had been in yesterday. To the king, every moment and call of his name had seemed to grate upon already taut nerves, making him a less then pleasant companion to be around once more. Despite the light-hearted attitude they had shared last night, there was an eerie feel of doom hanging about him today, as if something was only marking time to impending disaster, and Thorin was in a race to thwart it. There was only one problem – no one had told him the rules or marked the course.  
The missing patrol had not been found despite multiple searches, nor was there any sign of a battle, which had favored Dwalin’s assumption that the fools had become lost, until this morning. The dawn had come early, and with it, the discovery of one of their sentries, dead in his position, though from no visible wound. The healers, who had been the latest to delay him with another report, had still not come to an agreement as to what had killed the man, leading to mutters and suspicious looks from some toward the dwarrow and elves.

Heightening the tension was yet more items missing, and this time, they could not be blamed upon carelessness as the camp was moved. It was nothing critical, a shirt left to dry after washing, a loaf of bread one of the cooks turned his back on, or a blanket, but fingers had begun to point and tempers flare. Had Thorin not been feeling the overwhelming need to return to where he had been yesterday, he would not have dared to leave the camp, no matter how much he wished for a moment away from sneering elves, condescending men, and temperamental dwarrow.

He needed to be away before time ran out, or his own short fuse burned to the nub and flared at less forgiving targets then Therin and Fíli, as it had this morning. It had not been anything important, either. Therin had tripped, stumbling and knocking over the soup Fíli had set aside for Kíli, leading the two to snap at one another, an argument that ended abruptly when Thorin had strode between them, threatening to knock heads together if they did not quit. He had also added a scathing remark about Therin being less than helpful as a prince, words he regretted moments later, but by then, his youngest nephew had already stormed off. He really needed to sit down and have a talk with the boy, but it was never the right time. Preoccupied, the king made a curt nod of acknowledgement to the pair of sentries he had ordered to replace the lone watchers at the edge of camp, then cursed as a voice called from behind.

“Thorin!”

Anger scorched as hot as a goblin’s whip as he turned, just barely holding back a snarl when he identified the source. Frodo Baggins was headed toward him with a trio of scholars in his wake, one representing each of the other races in the army. At least they did not seem at one another’s throats! More importantly, if Frodo deemed it important enough to seek him out, it would probably prove worth the delay, no matter how much it grated upon already raw nerves.

“Yes, Frodo?”

He rarely called the young hobbit ‘Master Baggins’ anymore, not since Bilbo’s death. That would always be his brave, stubborn, infuriating burglar to Thorin, no matter how much he respected the nephew. He had originally insisted upon called the younger Baggins ‘Lord’, a title Frodo had earned many times over, but had relented when the hobbit retaliated by calling him ‘King’ at every turn. Now, it was simply ‘Frodo’ and ‘Thorin’. Frodo skidded to a halt, face pale and a piece of parchment clenched tightly in one hand.

“Did someone locate your missing bag?”

The young hobbit blinked stupidly at him for a moment, mind obviously not following the question before he shook his head impatiently.

“It was only writing supplies, anyway, nothing that cannot be replaced. No, we have been able to recover two new passages in the Book of Mazarbul, and I think the second one could be important.”

“I thought the rest was destroyed.”

Dwalin growled, eyeing the assembled scholars irritably. Thorin swiftly stilled his friend with a hand on his shoulder, knowing that this was a topic that had proven very difficult for the warrior.  
“Most of it was, Lord Dwalin, I doubt we’ll get anything beyond this.”

The man, a thin, older gentleman from Minas Arnor, squinted down at the dwarf from behind heavy lenses, the image of one who spent their life in books and scrolls instead of the harsher realities around them.

“It aided us greatly that the one who recorded most often wrote with a large, neat hand, or even our techniques may have been for naught. T’was not a task easily undertaken in any case, for the tome is fragile and some of the early methods used very crude.”

“Must you always make a cache of diamonds out of a few lumps of quartz?” The dwarf, Dagrûn, Erebor’s lesser Lore Keeper, huffed, staring sourly up at the elf who had just spoken, Istuinir. “Ori’s writing was easier to piece together from partial characters, that’s all. Here.”

Long brown beard bristling, he took the parchment from Frodo and thrust it at his king. Thorin could not help the slight shake in his hand as he took a breath and dropped his eyes to the paper, reading the words out loud. The actual fragments were printed in a bold, clear hand, while speculations as to the missing letters were in a lighter charcoal.

**‘[D]urin’s Ax [f]ound this day by L- [unintelligible]. Cache op- [unintelligible] by Balin.’**

“Bah! Scholars! We already knew they found the ax. It was in the first dispatch to Dain!”

Dwalin bit out, his scowl deepening to hide the deep pain only close friends would detect, but Thorin’s eyes were caught by one word in the second entry. Cult.

“Listen.”

He cut off further comment, clearing his throat as he began to read the next part of the recovered text.

**‘[Unintelligible] signs of Death [unintelligible] cult. Took Alfr. [Unintelligible] –eader dwarf known to Balin. It is [unintelligible]. He despairs. [Unintelligible] message to Dai-[n]. Tomorrow Balin will seek guidance [unintelligible].’**

“’Known to Balin’…” 

Thorin murmured, mind turning over the possibilities even as he looked to his companions for their reactions. Bofur’s lips were pressed so tightly together that they were turning white, while Dwalin had closed his eyes, leaning on the head of his war hammer as he seemed to simply listen. The king had known the other dwarf for far too long to be fooled, however. Dwalin was on the verge of an emotional cliff, hanging on as tightly as he could.

To those who did not know the sons of Fundin well, they had always appeared to be a mismatched duo, with little overt care for one another. Dwalin’s gruff manner and needling comments could be misinterpreted as impatience at best, or jealousy at worst, for the clever and silver-tongued Balin. The truth, as with so many things, lay hidden beneath the surface. Both were independent, capable dwarrow in their own right, but when together, they naturally played upon each other’s strengths with a trust and surety only those closely attuned to one another could reach. Balin was missed, deeply and daily.

The warrior had also confessed late one night, when both of them had too many ales, that doubts still plagued him. Would Balin be alive today had he insisted upon going with? Ori? Óin? It was a natural guilt; one shared by anyone who had survived while others had not had they any conscience to speak of. Knowing that, however, never made it easier when staring into the darkness in the wee hours of the morning, the red of blood all that could be seen when the eyes grew too heavy to keep open any longer. Thorin only prayed that whatever this new information might mean, it did not add more such nights to his shield brother’s burdens.

“Does that help? Certainly it should narrow down who could be the leader!”

Frodo was obviously expecting a ‘yes’ in reply, but it was not one Thorin could give, the king instead rereading the critical sentences silently before saying anything.

“Yes and no, Master Hobbit. Balin was a main envoy in our diplomacy for well over a hundred years, often travelling to other kingdoms. He knew most of the nobles of all seven clans, so that may prove of little use. This passage about him despairing and seeking guidance is more troubling to me.” 

A cold spear of ice settled in the king’s gut as his mind supplied a horrifying sequence of events. Turning back to the others, he held up the sheet in a fisted hand, eyes catching those of the three scholars with an urgent demand. 

“Where in the book was this?”

“The entry before Balin’s death.”

The Lore Keeper met his monarch’s eyes, a shared sorrow there as the old dwarf had been the one to mentor the scholar after the retaking of Erebor. A thought also lurked that neither would say aloud in this mixed company; that if Balin were troubled enough by the revelation of the cult leader’s identity to seek the reassurance of the ancient ritual of kings out by the Kheled-zaram… What secrets had been hidden in the depths?

“Whoever it is, there’s more to it than some noble my brother met once or twice.”

Dwalin’s rumble only confirmed Thorin’s own thoughts, but before either of them could do or say more, the ring of steel upon steel caught their attention. Back the way they had come, a large gathering was forming, the voices of angry men, dwarrow, and elves vying to drown each other out, then came the clash of weapons once more. Thorin shoved the parchment at Frodo as Dwalin swore and took off at a run, the king right behind. Together, the two began to shove through the gathered dwarrow, several curses and raised fists abruptly ending when their identities were noted. 

As he burst through the last bunch into the center of the commotion, Thorin inhaled sharply at the sight before him. There were two large groups, one of men and one of elves, facing off with the enraged dwarrow, the glint of weapons held at the ready warning the king what was at stake. Only one, however, had yet dared to strike, and Fíli had blocked the fine filigree knife with one of his falchions, though the elf would not yield. Next to the combatants, glowering at the other two sides, were Therin and a somewhat pale and shaky Kíli.

"HOLD! What is the meaning of this?!"

His bellow echoed through the chamber, taking on a power that it never seemed to contain back at the Lonely Mountain, the others falling into stunned silence as he pushed aside the last dwarf in his way to reach his nephews. Thorin’s arrival appeared to convince Fíli’s opponent that continuing to cross weapons with the dwarrow prince was unwise as he stepped back, knife disappearing in a flourish of whirling wrist. Several of the dwarrow of Erebor at least had the sense to avoid meeting the eyes of their lord, contrition replacing anger in their posture. Others were not so intelligent, the leader of the men's contingent glaring at Thorin while the elf sniffed, looking down his nose at something foul.

"Answer him!"

Legolas did not so much shoulder his way through as slip, as if able to magically fit his body through any opening. The twin sons of Elrond and Mablung, the Ithilien Ranger, followed, their own scowls of displeasure firmly in place. The elf in front, the same one who had been making trouble this morning over a missing tunic, sneered.

"The fresh lettuce sent from Lothlorien has been burned, and much of the lembas taken! No doubt it will mysteriously appear at the bottom of some crack or crevasse later!” 

If anyone else saw the flinch and heard the gasp given by Frodo, they showed no sign, though the king noted Therin took a step closer to his hobbit friend. Thorin pushed that concern aside, knowing Frodo would have support for the memories those words might provoke, though it was Samwise who had told them of the incident originally. The elf, meanwhile, had spun to face his audience, seeking support for his words. 

“All know of the dwarven opinion of such things and the dirty tricks to which they will stoop, surely they did this to drive us off!"

"Dwarrow!"

Before the king could stop him, Dwalin had marched up to the offender, who, probably being Sylvan if the russet hair was any clue, was actually only a few inches taller than the big warrior. To Thorin's private amusement, the elf seemed to shrink in a bit, body twitching as if he wished to step back but was blocked by the others at his back.

"W-what?"

"The plural of dwarf is dwarrow, elfling. Must we provide your schooling, as well?"

The ancient plural had not been used in hundreds of years, but many dwarrow saw their relatively new instance upon it as a way to retake their identity from the sometimes derogatory labels of others. ‘Dwarves’ were vagabonds and wandering smiths, run out of villages and scorned. ‘Dwarrow’, however, were a mighty people who would return their mansions to their former glory and once again be begged to visit the halls of far-off kings. The elf's spine stiffened in outrage, the ugly twisting of the lips returning. 

"There is nothing you could teach to me, dwarf, for I do not wish to learn greed and ill-manners!"

"Aye, I'd say you were a master at those already."

Thorin had to bite his lip to prevent a chuckle at Bofur's dry comeback as Dwalin just rolled his eyes and walked over to the princes with a huff, muttering about stupid idiots and pointy ears under his breath.

"What actually happened here? Fíli? Kíli?"

The blonde stepped forward as Dwalin and Bofur managed to persuade Kíli to take a seated position against a barrel someone hastily rolled over. The golden haired prince, who had finally relaxed his stance, though he did not sheath his swords, answered without ever taking his attention from the elf who had challenged him.

"I was walking with Kíli back from the privy when we smelt smoke from the middle store room." They had been using three of the old stores as storage for provisions and other items, one for each race, thinking that this might provide more protection from thieves. "There was nothing we could do other than put out the fire. The food had already been destroyed."

"Nothing you wished to do, you mean."

"Serion!"

Tauriel, who had joined her prince, rebuked the elf sharply even as Legolas moved to confront the offender with his face only inches away. From Thorin's position, he could see Serion automatically begin to back away from the fierce light blue eyes only to freeze, forcing himself to hold in place. He could hear a murmur begin behind him as the dwarrow took note of the amazing sight of an elf defending a dwarf.

"Challenge the word of one of the Princes of Erebor and you also challenge me! Shall we continue this with steel, Serion?"

As the other elf blanched, the king's eyebrows shot up in surprise and he heard a low whistle from Bofur, though he noted that his nephews did not seem all that shocked. In fact, Kíli had a small smile playing about his lips, as if vastly amused by the whole thing. Serion, for his part, did not verbally answer, though he did step back and give a short, reluctant bow in the direction of the royal dwarrow before melting back behind his own kind. One group having been somewhat cowed, the king turned his attention upon the men.

"And you? What call do men have to blame dwarrow?"

A man, taller than most, and with odd steel-colored eyes and hair the black of an approaching storm, shouldered his way to the front, looking first to Mablung before answering the dwarf king.

"I am Lurdo, of Lossernach. One of our ale barrels is missing, and several more of water and ale stove in, and some of our cram and bread destroyed by the resulting flood. I was the first to make the door when we heard the sound of wood breaking, and I swear that I saw a short figure hide behind the stack when I did so. It could only have been a dwarf!"

"And did you find this dwarf afterwards? Or perhaps you would blame a hobbit?" Kíli asked sharply, forcing himself to his feet.

An ugly, restless energy took over most of the gathered warriors as whispers repeated the words the prince had spoken from one to another as a single vibration upon the web of a vast, deadly spider. Frodo Baggins was held in high esteem by almost all the free peoples of Middle Earth; to suggest his involvement in such a petty thing…

Thorin’s teeth bared in a predatory grin as he realized what Kíli was trying to accomplish with such dangerous words. Very clever, to play upon what would unite instead of divide. It was only too bad that the man was quick to see the trap despite his anger and outrage. Still, it gave Thorin an inkling of an idea even as Lurdo’s chin came up, proud and defiant, as he answered his accuser.

“Never would I suggest such a thing of Lord Frodo, Prince Kíli. You twist my words to your own end. Just because we did not find the dwarf does not mean none was there!”

"So you blame a dwarf you cannot find, which may well be a figment of the ale you have drunk!" 

Therin growled, tone remarkably similar to his uncle's in a foul mood, hand resting provocatively upon his ax.

"There is only one door to that room, Lurdo." Mablung pointed out sharply before Thorin could say anything. "If a dwarf was in there as you claim, where did he go?"

The challenged man scowled, tensing up defensively.

"How should I know? Everyone knows they come from stone, captain, maybe they can hide in it, too! Greedy, secretive sorts, not wanting us here even when we come to aid 'em! Probably had some help from them superior pointy ears over there, too good to share provisions with us when we asked!"

That did it. The babble of accusations and insults overrode anything Thorin might have said, even should the elves and men respect his rule. Still he was about to try when the ring of steel being unsheathed rang through the room, three sides surging forward on the verge of all-out war. Thorin exchanged a grim glance with Dwalin, both preparing to put themselves between any attacker and the three princes, when a single voice rang out through the tumult.

"I have seen this before, men, elves and dwarrow upon the verge of spilling the blood of those who should be allies!" Kili’s hand was tight upon his staff as blazing brown eyes caught all around him with accusation. "Have we learned nothing from the past? Are we so petty that now the stone would run red over bread and ale instead of silver and gold?"

"Do you not see that you do the work of the enemy for him?" 

Fíli added, stepping to his brother's side to present a united front, Therin half a second behind. Thorin felt pride well up even as fear played at his nerves, sweat trickling down his brow as he tried to watch all sides at once, alert to any threat against his nephews. The king was more than willing to allow them to attempt to defuse the situation, as the results would not be good for anyone if he were required to step in. Besides, it was excellent practice, a sincerity oozing from every word of the young princes that Thorin knew he could never match. He was too practiced at the art of politics now, and too bitter from past events.

"It would be easy to dress a goblin in scavenged garb. If it kept to the shadows, who could say it would not easily be mistaken for a dwarf? Or they might have sent one of the cult!"

Therin added, making Thorin snort at the image that came to mind of one of the creatures drowning in one of Dwalin's shirts. The king decided to step in as many of the crowd once more began muttering among themselves.

"The points made by my nephews are valid, though we cannot know for certain without the culprit to hand. Instead, I ask you this, will you do as the cult wishes, arguing amongst ourselves? Or will you defy the darkness that seeks to divide us and trust in my word that all possible will be done to protect our supplies, starting with the consolidation of everything brought for the benefit of all? Any who wishes to use supplies may request whatever they prefer, but all food will be held in common for the army. If one must face short rations, we all will."

"And how do we know that whoever is in charge of this won't short the race they don't like?"

The call came from among the dwarrow, probably to prevent renewed accusations from the men and elves. Thorin's mind raced to come up with an acceptable answer when he realized Frodo had come to stand nearby, that the seed of idea he had had before blossomed full grown. Reaching back, the king steered the hobbit forward with a large hand on his shoulder.

"All of you know of Lord Frodo and his sacrifices for Middle Earth! Could you think of a more impartial and trustworthy being? Each race will then assign one of their number to serve as his assistants." Thorin took in the startled visage of the hobbit and hastened to add, "That is, if he would consent to take up this thankless task?"

Frodo nailed him with a reproving roll of the eyes that clearly said, 'little late with that question, aren't you? and 'you will owe me for this!'. Thorin simply smirked, proud of himself for that rather brilliant idea. In a further burst of inspiration, he began to search for one particular dwarf only to find the slightly pudgy figure already making his way to the front, pushed by his father's cousin.

"Yes, I will do this."

The hobbit finally called out, both hands raised to quell the chatter of people pressing close. Thorin grabbed the young dwarf's arm, giving a nod of thanks to Bifur before herding his charge over to Frodo.

"Here is your assistant from the dwarrow!"

The king turned away before anyone else could address him, collecting Bofur and Dwalin with a tilt of the head back toward the stairs. His triumph was already draining away to a renewed anxiety, a need, really, to return to the council room. He could not afford to get pulled into the minutia of setting up the system he had just so blithely ordered. Before the three older dwarrow were out of earshot, they all heard the young one the king had just pushed to the fore introducing himself to the rather overwhelmed Frodo Baggins.

"Tombur, son of Bombur, at your service, Master Baggins."


	16. KIng of Carven Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which more of the past is revealed, Bofur is, well, Bofur, and Dwalin gets mistaken for a girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

16\. King of Carven Stone

“Well, that coulda been worse!”

Bofur’s cheeky comment brought an immediate huff from Dwalin, who swatted the smaller dwarf before Thorin could, almost sending him headfirst into the stairs they were climbing. It was moments like these that had always caused the cheerful ex-miner to grate upon Thorin’s nerves.

“Shut it!” Dwalin growled, “Every time you say that, things start falling down around our ears!”

“Occasionally literally.”

Thorin added drily, fixing the unrepentant Bofur with a glare, which only made the councilor grin wider. It was hard to forget about five hundred pounds of ugly, diseased flesh falling on top of them, no matter how insane the day had been. They walked in silence for the next several minutes, reaching the council room they had been in the day before, where Thorin dismissed the guards with a nod of gratitude. Before going in, however, the king leaned against the old stone door and swallowed hard, working up the nerve to allow the usual mask to slip from his countenance. Turning to Bofur and Dwalin, he laid bare for them to see the fear, doubts, and anguish he had been so carefully concealing.

“Am I truly doing what is best for our people, or am I once more allowing my own desires and need for revenge to lead me to the fool’s path?”

Dwalin’s face hardened, eyes blazing at the doubt he saw in Thorin, but Bofur pursed his lips thoughtfully, meeting his king’s gaze with the same openness he had always displayed but Thorin had so long dismissed. Well, he would not ignore the other now. He desperately needed the words of someone he trusted to say that he was not allowing the past to be repeated. When the hatted dwarf stayed silent, however, he offered a further confession.

“All I have seen in the memories of the other Durins lately is pain and death. I fear that it may be a warning that I am ignoring.”

“But warning of what, Thorin?” Bofur cocked his head, none of the usual grin and teasing manner evident now. “There’s no way o’ knowing if there is a way to change anything. Do I believe that you are being reckless? No, I would not be here if I did, you know that. And what is to be gained if we should pull out now?”

“Nothing.” Dwalin spat out with a scowl, “The cult won’t stop. And if it is the idiots back there who worry you, send them home. Dwarrow can do this on our own.”

Except Thorin was absolutely certain that this time, they could not. Every time he had even begun to consider sending the others away, he had such a strong premonition of disaster that he was certain it had to be from Mahal himself. Before he could respond, however, Bofur rolled his eyes and allowed his uncanny ability to say exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time free rein.

“Oh, aye, and that worked so jolly well for us back at Erebor!”

Thorin winced as Dwalin’s knuckle dusters clacked against one another as the warrior’s hands bunched in rage. Bofur, as if suddenly aware of how that sounded and who he was standing next to, took a hasty step back, hands raised in supplication. One of the king’s hands upon the bulging forearms forestalled another fight before it could begin.

“Enough. I asked for his opinion and I will not fault him for giving it, Dwalin. Bofur speaks nothing but the truth.”

“Don’t be misunderstandin’ me, now. Nothing would be served by pullin’ out because of one missing patrol and a few hotheads! I would give it at least a few more days, Thorin.”

The king sighed, nodding as he heard his own thoughts echoed back to him. He knew to act now, while he was certain some important information was still missing, would be folly, but had needed the reassurance of hearing it from another. Besides, if he were falling to gold-sickness or his own stubborn nature once more, Bofur was the one dwarf with the army who would not hesitate to tell him to his face, Dwalin or no Dwalin. Before Thorin could move once more to enter the room, however, Bofur stopped him with another question.

“Thorin… This was a dwarrow kingdom, and we all know how fond our great race is of secrets. Could there be passages, hidden ones that our saboteur is using?”

“There are, Bofur, but many were created when no Durin was alive to remember them. Others… I know that they are there, but I cannot quite grasp the knowledge until I am standing before them. My mind bounces from one Durin to another, showing me bits of history, lives lived long ago, that I cannot always grasp or order.”

Hands clenched empty air at the strength it took him to admit to such failings, even to these two. Thorin Oakenshield had never been accused of being an overly open dwarf, though Dwalin was the closest person he had to a brother with Frérin so long dead. As for Bofur the irreverent and annoying, he was the lodestone that kept drawing his king back to the proper alignment, painful or not. Taking a deep breath, Thorin headed into the room and back into the mists of a time long forgotten.

_Second Age, 699_

_“What has happened?”_

_Blain could barely feel his wife’s hands upon his shoulders, forcing him down into one of the bare stone council seats as he stared at the Lore Keeper of Khazad-dûm, Reglin. The room was chill without all the tapestries adorning the walls, the stone hard without its cushion, yet more hints that something had gone drastically wrong within the dwarrow’s greatest city._

_“A plague, lad. At its worst, we lost almost a hundred a day, and more still die.”_

_He did not hide his shocked alarm at that, exchanging a panicked look with his wife._

_“Do we know the cause? Or a treatment? Frey should not be here-“_

_“Peace, Blain. I would not have allowed either of you within the city if we believed there to still be a chance of infection. Anything that could be contaminated has been burned, including the bodies of the dead, though the elven healers say it can only infect those bitten by the ticks. None would risk the black death over a few velvet draperies.”_

_“Black Death?!”_

_The smith paled, his grip on his wife’s hand tightening, and he heard her gasp. They had both been present when her grandfather, a noble within the court of the Stonefoot king, received the reports from nearby villages of men. All within had been found dead, rotting where they lay, the tips of noses, fingers and toes all gone black. It was only when some returning dwarrow merchants had come across victims still alive that they realized the putrid rotting of the extremities began well before death could mercifully end their suffering. Had it been simple luck, then, that had prevented the dwarrow from catching this disease previously?_

_“Men who have caught the disease have all been dead within a week if not days.”_

_Frey whispered and Blain nodded, recalling the same reports. Reglin sighed, sinking wearily down into a chair himself._

_“Aye, that’s true enough, but dwarrow aren’t men, are they? It started with a more lethal type, which did kill within two weeks, but with the aid of the elven healers, many have begun to survive it. The trouble is that about half of those who survive the initial sickness are taken by the fading about a month later, even children. You know nothing can stop that once it has started.”_

_The smith shook his head, trying to sort through all the information in his mind even as his heart wished to reject it all as some horrific tale told about the campfire. Children essentially dying of old age? What nightmare had he come home to?_

_“You talked Uncle into sending to the elves? To Amdir?”_

_Reglin smiled faintly, for it had been he and Blain who had long been working upon the king to at least open a diplomatic exchange with their tall neighbors, advice that had not been well received. The queen’s family had been of the refugees from Gabilgathol, known to the elves as Belegost, the original home of the Broadbeams. Some of those betrayed by Thingol were kin; the elves were not the only ones upon Middle-Earth to have a long memory._

_“Yes, finally. They were able to help us find the source- rats that had come in with a shipment of livestock from the new Númenórean settlements to the south. Once we killed the creatures and burned anywhere the ticks on them could have infested, there has been no new reports of illness, just the fadings. It was only then that the king would consent to having you sent for.”_

_“But why? I can do nothing!”_

_“Go to your uncle, Blain. It is not my place to tell you.”_

“Thorin? What is it?”

The king blinked, surprised to find himself tightly gripping the edge of the conference table, Bofur and Dwalin both regarding him warily, as one would a creature gone mad with foaming at the mouth. Looking down, Thorin noted that it was Bofur’s hand upon his arm not that of the old Lore Keeper, Reglin, but some part of him was not yet back in the present.

“I- I must… I need to find-“

His voice trailed off in confusion as he gestured vaguely toward the corridor, not able to put into words the tug of the past that he could not deny. As he attempted to move toward the door, however, Dwalin intercepted him, large hands coming to rest upon his shoulders and give him a gentle shake.

“There won’t be anythin’ there, Thorin. Our scouts say the entire level was looted long ago.”

“There is something…”

Thorin’s eyes focused past his friend, shrugging off the restraining arms as he stumbled toward the door.

_Frey’s arm settled about his shoulders, a warm, solid reassurance that he needed more than even air right now. Gently, she guided his fumbling steps, keeping him moving when dread would have stilled his feet. What could be so drastically wrong that Reglin, his old mentor, would not be willing to even hint at a warning?_

_Ahead, he could see the blank wall that made the corridor look like it abruptly ended, and stopped, startled to actually see the defensive door to the royal quarters closed tight. How many times had he heard the story of the building of Khazad-dûm? How Durin had chosen to layer the defenses by creating a special door to hide the inner halls that would disappear completely when closed? No force of arms, not even dragon fire, would unseal the portal without the proper sequence. How, as a child, he had longed to see it thus just once, to put his hand up and press the proper spots, to see it retract into the wall! To the imagination of a dwarfling it had always whispered of tales of magic and ancient heroes!_

_Too bad not even the best door could defend against an illness._

Thorin stood before the blank wall, even as Blain had, the heated discussion between Bofur and Dwalin an irritating buzz in his ears that he paid no heed to. Let them debate whether he had finally gone mad if they wanted, he knew what needed to be done! 

Blunt, battle-scarred fingers instinctively found the clever latches, triggering the proper sequence as if it had been he, and not Blain, who had been drilled in them his whole life. He felt a slight *pop* as the final catch was touched, the hair on his arms standing on end, but nothing else happened for a long moment.

“Thorin? What did you just-“

Bofur cut himself off with an astonished gasp as the wall seemed to slide into itself, though not with the noiseless smooth action it must have once had. Beyond was a dark corridor, the air smelling heavy and dead, but a tapestry still hung just within, colors dulled only by the dust upon it. With a shaking hand, Dwalin held the torch near, revealing a scene of a battle from long ago, the dwarrow taking on a monstrous appearance in their heavy helms made to resemble creatures of legend. The councilor reached out to touch it, but Thorin was quick to intercept his hand.

“It is old enough that it may crumble with a touch, Bofur. Get a scribe down here to record everything we find.”

“Right.”

His old companion scrambled off without another word, leaving the two others shaking their heads in amusement. Some dwarrow never changed.

“What was this place?”

Dwalin asked, still peering intently at the tapestry, as if trying to memorize the formations and tactics shown.

“In the time of Durin I and II, it was the quarters of the royal family, though Durin III moved them to the sixth level after his grandfather’s death. This was then made into quarters for the Warmaster and his lieutenants, along with the royal weapons’ storage.”

“Weapons?” The king smiled as Dwalin’s attention was decidedly caught by the word, his old friend finally tearing his gaze from the wall hanging to question him more closely. “Do you think there might be…?”  
Whatever the warrior was about to ask, however, went unheard as the king’s attention slipped once more into the distant past. 

_Blain stood in the doorway to the royal quarters, stomach tightening at the stillness in the corridor beyond. The bare walls felt cold and hard without their tapestries, making the smith shudder. His wife’s hand upon his arm felt as hot as a mithril forge in comparison. The air was heavy with the scent of herbs attempting to mask the foul musk of sickness. All four doors to the apartments of the princes were shut tight, something that Blain could not ever remember seeing during the day, as he or one of his cousins always seemed to be going in or out._

_Each had been given their own small suite of rooms upon attaining their twenty-fifth year, moving from the nursery attached to the king’s apartments to one of those now concealed by the closed doors. All were identical, containing a sitting room, small study, bathing room, and two bed chambers. Blain no longer lived here, of course, having moved to the artisans’ area near the main markets when he chose to pursue his craft over the path of the military or royal advisor, but he was still a frequent visitor. How many of those rooms now stood empty, their occupants succumbing to this disease? The oldest and youngest of his cousins were both married with children, and Blain dreaded facing tombs holding the snuffed out remains of such young lives. Talí was barely half a year old!_

_“Where are the children? We should at least hear them.”_

_Frey’s whisper cut across the eerie silence like a knife, making him start. Normally after a long absence, they would be swarming him by now, adults and younglings alike, voices vying with one another to be heard. Blain did not answer beyond a tightening of his lips as he began to move determinedly forward, praying to Mahal that the little ones were only confined to bed, recovering. In his heart, however, he knew how unlikely that was.  
The king’s door was ajar, his aunt’s chair in the main sitting room already draped in black, the dwarrow color of both birth and death. They had come from the black core of the very mountains, and to that darkness would they return until called forth by Mahal once more to remake the world. A small sob from Frey had him tightening his hold on her hand. The black drape over the chair was the only cloth in the room, with even the rich fur rugs by the fireplace having been removed, no doubt to burn._

_“Who comes?”_

_A familiar soft voice called from the next room, making Blain sigh in relief. Thank Mahal, at least one of his cousins yet lived!_

Thorin was unaware of the shouts of alarm, did not even feel Dwalin’s iron grip momentarily delaying him so that Bofur could scurry to keep up. In his eye, it was not the large warrior who held him, but a beautiful, distraught dwarrowdam, softly whispering encouragement as he paused for a second before answering, gathering strength for the trial ahead. He was heedless of his true surroundings as he moved toward the inner room, where he saw the glow of a fire, a large bed, and a dwarf bowed with grief in the chair nearby, not a room empty of furniture save for a few racks for weapons that had long been absent.

_The bedchambers were dark except for the glow of the fire and a single crystal lamp by the bed. His youngest cousin, his elder by a mere eleven years, Thain, sat in a hard wooden chair, a rough wool cape around his shoulders to keep off the chill. Swallowing hard, Blain forced his eyes to where his uncle lay, tears sliding unheeded down his cheeks as he realized that the stillness of the small, wizened form was well beyond that of a deep sleep._

_“Blain? Is that you?”_

_The younger dwarf flinched, hitting his knees on the floor by his cousin’s chair as he took in the prince’s milk-filmed unseeing eyes._

_“Y-yes, Thain, it’s me.”_

_His gaze strayed back to his uncle as he gripped his cousin’s hands, a muffled sob from behind telling him Frey had also realized what had happened._

_“May he rest in Mahal’s arms.” The ritual words choked him, forced out between stiff lips. “What may I do to aid you, my prince?”_

_Thain let out a long, shuddering breath before pulling his hands free to fish under the portion of the cape that draped over his lap. He pulled something out, shaking so hard that he almost dropped it before allowing Blain to see._

_“You can accept this.”_

_Blain’s eyes widened, head shaking frantically as he tried to back away only to be stopped by Frey’s hands on his shoulders. Thain smiled sadly as he held out the gold and silver crown of Khazad-dûm._

_“I can only imagine your face right now, cousin. You never expected nor wanted this, but there is no one else, Blain. Both of my brothers, my marriage-sister, and nephews are dead. Láni might yet die, and Talí is both female and an infant.”_

_“And what of you?”_

_Blain suspected the answer before he even heard his cousin’s cynical snort, but he had to ask, mind reeling for any alternatives to what he had never allowed himself to contemplate, even in nightmares._

_“I? What good would a scholar be upon the throne? Even if I thought myself equal to such a task before this, the illness has left scars upon my eyes, stealing my sight. Our people will not accept a blind king, nor should they be asked to. I have already formally abdicated and Father proclaimed you Crown Prince.” Sightless eyes turned toward the bed, the next words barely audible. “I think… I think seeing you home was the only thing he held on for. As soon as Reglin brought word you had passed the gates, he let himself sleep.”_

_Blain nodded dumbly, stumbling as he pushed himself to his feet and over to the side of the dead monarch._

_“T-touch does not-?”_

_“No. Though we have been burning the bodies as it was thought not to risk a return.”_

_Blain nodded, tears dripping onto his uncle’s cold, still features as he bent, placing a kiss on the forehead of the only father he remembered. Anger burned at the unfairness of such deaths and the shattered remains of the life he thought he had mapped out._

_“How could this happen, Thain? Reglin mentioned an infested shipment of livestock?”_

_“Aye, including some woolen goods meant as gifts for the royal family from the lords of Umbar. We all had them in our rooms, Blain!”_

_“An act of war?!”_

_The smith twisted around at his wife’s outraged hiss, mind numbed by grief only slowly understanding the implications. Thain just shook his head._

_“We don’t know. The wagoneers were all among the first to die, and when sketches were sent to our envoy in Umbar, they denied any knowledge of the men or the shipment.”_

_Blain nodded, fist tightening so hard his knuckles ached. Anger had given way to the knowledge of what he must become and do._

_“So, I have a kingdom in chaos with thousands dead, orcs and goblins at our very gates, and the possibility of an undeclared war with an unknown enemy.”_

_“I’m afraid so, cousin. You forgot to mention that you must undergo vigil tonight, as your assumption of the throne must occur as soon as possible. The elves, at the least, know the true extent to which the kingdom is crippled; we dare not show further vulnerability. Long have they coveted what we hold.”_

_Blain’s lips thinned, considering that. Amdir had never been the easiest of neighbors, but there had been talk of founding another elven kingdom upon the western side of the mountains, one that would be populated mostly by Noldor. Perhaps now was the time to begin serious talks with Gil-Galad. Let someone appointed by that worthy spar with the overly haughty Sindarin lord, show him that dwarrow need not rely solely upon his good will. He regarded his cousin for a moment before resting a hand on his shoulder._

_“And you, Thain? Is there anything I can do to further aid you?”_

_“Yes.” Blain inhaled sharply, not having expected an affirmative answer, especially with the way his cousin had stiffened, as if unsure of what he was about to request. “Go to the back wall of my father’s study and touch it.”_

Thorin blinked, one hand automatically seeking to brace himself upon a table that was no longer there, and falling to the floor with a grunt. Something long and thin poked at his ribs even as his companions turned to him in alarm.

"Thorin! What's wrong? Do we need-"

"M'fine!" 

He managed to gasp out, one hand rising to halt any attempt to run for aid. With a grimace, he forced his body to inhale, bringing limbs back under control and pushing himself up to see what he had landed on. It was an ax, though different than the ones that Thorin was used to seeing, for the blade was a series of jagged teeth, similar to a saw. With a quirk of his mouth, he handed it to his friend, watching with amusement as Dwalin’s eyes gleamed before turning away, feet heading him towards the door once again.

“What are you doing? That’s a wall!”

Blinking in surprise at the voice in his ear, the king glanced around to realize he did not recall leaving the room after handing the odd ax to Dwalin, nor coming into this one. Pulling his arm out of the restraining grip, he gave the dwarrowdam a sad smile even as his nerves sent a chill up his spine.

“I must do this, Frey.”

Thorin blinked, and the dwarrowdam was replaced by the gaping mouth and reddening face of Dwalin before he found himself lost to the memory once more.

_Blain raised a shaking hand to the wall, not quite touching it yet. He had heard stories all his life of what might be hidden here, remembered his cousins daring one another to sneak into the forbidden room and try touching the wall. He had never been included in the game, though he could not recall why, nor decide if he would have had the nerve to attempt it. It had seemed so… outlandish. A wall that only the next incarnation of their long dead leader could open? Stories for children, to keep them out of even greater mischief! Next, some fools among men would whisper that only the one destined to be the next king could pull Durin’s Ax from the stone it had been lodged in! Any dwarf could do it, they just had more respect than to try. That weapon was for only one dwarf, and the time had not yet come for it to be used in battle again._

“Thorin!”

The king winced at Dwalin’s outraged bellow, finally glancing around the old study. To one side, several casks were stacked, one having tipped over on its side to spill a familiar powder across the floor.

“Flash flame?”

He asked, hoping in some minute way to distract his old friend, but Dwalin merely gave a grunt of agreement, arms crossed and scowl firmly in place. Bofur, of course, was already chortling. He really hoped he was wrong as to what had actually annoyed the large warrior.

“What?”

Thorin then demanded with feigned irritation, a tactic that had so often worked with Dis.

“Frey?”

Dwalin spat out the name, and Thorin bit back a groan as the warrior proceeded to eye his two companions, as if debating which of the two to smack first. Unfortunately, he and Dwalin had been friends and sparring partners too long for the bald dwarf to hold back out of respect for royalty, especially when the only other one present was a member of the company. The king decided to copy one of his nephews’ favorite tactics and continue playing the innocent.

“Frey was the wife of Durin II, a Stonefoot. Where did you hear the name?”

Getting just the right amount of confusion in his voice was much harder than he had expected given how easily the older two rascals he called his sister-sons did it. Bofur had now devolved into slapping his knee in glee as he bent to catch his breath.

“Y-you just called him that! Guess we know where Kíli gets the trouble telling lad from lass from!”

“Oh, shut up.”

Dwalin snapped, giving the councilor a shove, which turned into a satisfied grin when Bofur’s feet tangled, landing him unceremoniously on his backside with feet sticking in the air. Thorin, meanwhile, fell back upon his most put upon, I’m about to lose patience look.

“If you two are quite through?”

He did not wait for an answer, turning instead back to the wall and fitting his fingers instinctively into the proper key spots. It had never truly been that only Durin could open the wall, just that he alone knew the secret to triggering the mechanism. With a faint grinding quickly catching the attention of the other two, the stone pulled in and slid to the side, blasting them with stale air.


	17. Hidden Passages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the cult finally attacks and the war claims its first casualties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

17\. Hidden Passages

Thorin could hear the restless shifting of the two other dwarrow with him as the wall cracked, revealing the long hidden door to one of Durin’s inner chambers. The king could not immediately look, however, as he doubled over coughing from the stale, dead air coming from the ancient hiding place. Even as he felt Dwalin’s large hands steadying him, the ghost of other, smaller hands were felt there, as well.

_Second Age, 699_

_Tears sprung to Blain’s eyes as he gasped, choking a bit on the dust, and Frey’s always supporting arm about his waist. He took a hesitant step forward, knowing what he would see before he even thrust the torch in to light up the ancient space._

_To the right was a forge, its furnace cold now for almost seven hundred years, yet with a ready supply of coal still to hand, bellows waiting, as if someone had just stepped out. Right in front of him was the main anvil, supported upon a seven sided pillar of bedrock carved with the history of their race, so beautiful and intricate that Frey broke away to kneel before it, hands gently caressing the different scenes. The tools were carefully racked nearby, waiting along with a large pile of bars of various shapes, sizes and metals, ready to be worked. Against the back wall were several stone basins with a lever just above, undoubtedly to bring fresh snow-melt from the peak for slacking. To complete the workshop, there was a low table to the left side with a wood chest full of small drawers, spools of drawn silver, gold, copper, and mithril wire, and yet more tools. It was a master’s set up, one Blain had only dreamed of having, and not just for blacksmithing, but for white smithing and fine work, as well._

_The dwarf could not help taking a moment to run work-scarred hands over the wood, leather, and metal of the tools, at once as familiar and welcome to him as an old friend whose absence he had not known until now. He knew that the heavy hammer needed its head checked before striking, as his last apprentice had been a ham-handed idiot with such things, though a genius with wire and gems. If he closed his eyes, he could reach out unerringly and put hand to any item he wanted, the contents of each drawer already known to the last ruby._

_It was an eerie sensation, trying to separate what he, Blain, knew from this sudden invasion of feelings and memories not his own. Shudders wracked his body as his mind rebelled, attempting to thrust away the strange, new intrusion, cold merely the first physical manifestation of the shock. He almost bolted, then, heedless of Frey's tearful, worried voice and loving hands, as he came to realize with a moment of stunning clarity that these memories were not as new as he had first believed._

_How many times had he known how to change a design or alter the way he struck the metal, though none had shown him?_

Thorin shuddered, cold settling in his stomach as he murmured to himself the contradiction that he had long refused to face.

"How did I know of what was coming that day, that it was a dragon, when no living dwarrow had ever seen one?"

"What? Thorin-"

It was so much buzz in his ears, unacknowledged, as Blain's memories pulled him back in.

_Somehow, a part of him had always known, always been Durin, with his knowledge and skills. It had simply been locked away, coming to him only in dreams and hunches that he had learned to trust. Too many times as a young apprentice, he had been scoffed at for trying such things, only to have them work better than the accepted, 'traditional', techniques._

_For one moment, Blain, who would be Durin II, could let out his weary sigh, the tension draining, as he reveled in the feel of finding his place and coming home._

To Thorin’s disgust, the sight that met his eyes was vastly different than that which had greeted his ancestor long ago. The anvil was still there, sitting in the middle of the room, tools racked nearby, but it was clear that it was only because someone could not be bothered to move them elsewhere. Instead, Durin VI had filled the space with a private treasure horde, chest after chest stacked against the walls, hiding the furnace, bellows and slacking tanks. Undoubtedly, they were filled to the brim with different precious metals and gemstones, awaiting their greedy master’s return. To the left, the work bench had been removed, racks for weapons replacing it, filled with magnificent examples of every type and style known at the time Khazad-dûm was abandoned. At any other time, Thorin would have been fascinated. Now, however, the sight served only to curdle his stomach, every part of him rejecting what it implied. Durin VI had been no creator, but a hoarder instead, as bad as any dragon!

Dwalin, of course, was immediately past his king and running hands over various weapons, muttering comments to himself as he went. Thorin watched, amused, as the warrior lingered over several swords, some clearly meant for men or elves, before grunting as he struggled to lift an immense mace, its head larger than his.

“A weapon of the skin changers, Beorn’s kin.”

The king commented quietly, drawing Bofur over to examine Dwalin’s find with a low whistle. The councilor, however, was quickly diverted by something half-hidden behind the others, hand drawing out a tall bent steel shaft. Awed, the hatted dwarf ran his hands over the limbs before holding it out for the other two to inspect.

“This bow is made of metal! I’ve not heard of such!”

Thorin smiled, accepting the weight in his hand as a scene out of legend played in his mind.

_Second Age, 3434_

_The prince of men ran his hand along the bow, eyes gleaming in wonder and covetousness as he flipped the weapon upright, giving the string an experimental pull. Grunting, he strained to draw it to its full, then slowly relaxed, nodding at the shorter, stockier dwarf king._

_“’Tis a heavy pull, but some of my archers will manage. How do you get the steel to bend?”_

_Durin IV snorted at the idea that he would so freely give away such a secret even if he had known it himself, blue eyes running up and down the overly tall form of the lad, though he was not so lanky as his giant of a father. This was the first time he had met with the elder of Elendil’s boys, and so far he was not that impressed. The boy was just too cocky!_

_“The limbs are hollow. We’ve made two hundred and fifty so far, but one hundred of those are already pledged to Gil-Galad and Elrond, with equal that made smaller for my own troops. You can have the other fifty if you think you’ve men enough able to draw them. That thing will punch an arrow through anything except mithril, even chain armor.”_

_If the prince was skeptical of that claim, he did not show it, merely raising an eyebrow before returning to caressing the bow with a velvet touch usually reserved for a lover’s skin._

_“I will take them, gladly, and any more you can make of a size for men between now and the end of battle.”_

_Durin pursed his lips, considering what the other could mean by that even as he cursed the crick in his neck from staring up so far. Truthfully, the bows were not easy to make, with one failure for every two successfully made, and took the combined efforts of a dwarrow and an elven smith for each, but they seemed to be worth it. The prince, as if suddenly aware of the scrutiny, flushed as he sank down onto the low bench nearby, face saddening._

_“You and I both know ‘tis likely to be a long siege, even after we breach the gates of that cursed land. I think we will have need of your bows and any other weapons your smiths may forge ere it is through.”_

_Durin gave a short, tight nod, glad to hear that Isildur, at least, had a more realistic grasp of what they faced then most of the men, including Elendil. Sauron was too clever to go down at the mere appearance of a vast army at his gate, no matter what platitudes the king of men fed to his balky councilors!_

_“You may keep that one, since I doubt I’ll get you out of this room without it!”_

Thorin’s lips twisted in sadness at the memory, knowing too well what Isildur’s fate would be, even as he extended the bow back to Dwalin.

“Most of these were lost in the battles of Dagorlad and on the slopes of Mount Doom. This was the smaller of two sizes, meant for dwarrow archers. Unfortunately, the secrets of their forging were lost with the smiths of elves and dwarrow who created them, Durin never knew it.”

“Not all these weapons are for dwarrow, nor so well made. Look at these!”

Dwalin waved a dismissive hand at some tall pikes leaning against the wall, disgust clear. Even from where Thorin stood several paces away, he could see the rough forging of the iron heads, flaws that could prove fatal in battle. The quality ranged from barely acceptable to downright abysmal, making the king wonder what could have possessed his ancestor to give such junk pride of place with some of the legendary weapons of ages past.

Thorin began to turn away, but paused as he caught movement among the pikes out of the corner of his eye. As if long balanced upon the cusp of falling, the shoddy things began to slide down the wall, landing in a tangled heap with an almighty clatter that signaled the breaking of at least one head. Behind him, a guard darted into the room, weapon at the ready even as his mouth gaped open at the scene before him. Dwalin gave the lad a firm nod of satisfaction at the response time, waving him off, though Thorin barely gave them a glance. His attention had been firmly hooked by the sight of a familiar weapon resting forgotten in the small horizontal wall rack that had been hidden by the pikes.

Carefully, the dark-haired dwarf lifted down the sword, grimacing as the ancient leather of the finely tooled scabbard cracked and crumbled at his touch, leaving the sword bare to sight. The blade of mithril gleamed in his hand, as if newly oiled and polished, edge proving razor sharp when Thorin laid a scrap of leather across it as a test. Beside him, one of his companions gave a low whistle as they crowded around their king to see the weapon for themselves.

“Now, that’s more like it.” Dwalin smiled, dark eyes gleaming as bright as the blade. “That thing would probably cut a piece of parchment in half without any pressure.”

Thorin nodded, easily recalling the common test used to prove blade quality to skeptical, and occasionally dishonest, customers. Its veracity was accepted in most towns throughout Middle Earth, lending at least some protection to the indigent smith and blade-sharpener so that they were not cheated out of yet more promised commission payment. 

It was a simple enough test, the parchment held up so that the blade could be applied to the edge. With heavier weapons and dull small knives, the parchment would crumple and rip more than cut, but blades that were of the highest quality and sharpness could cut cleanly through without a problem. This one, as Dwalin had noted, would probably not even need any pressure applied to do so, a test both Sting and Orcrist had also passed.  
Tossing the hilt from hand to hand restlessly, Thorin marveled at the exquisite balance and lightness of the weapon. It was clearly long enough that most would need to use it two-handed were it made of steel, but with the mithril… The king passed it to his shield brother, who almost flung it across the room, having certainly been braced for a much heavier weight. Instead, Dwalin easily twirled it as Bofur ducked, backing away as the blade slashed perilously close to the flaps of his beloved hat. At a nod, the councilor threw another scrap of leather into the air, all three dwarrow grinning with satisfaction as the blade passed cleanly through.

“’Tis lighter even than that letter opener of Bilbo’s;” Dwalin told him, “Blades of a quality with Orcrist, if not a shade better.”

“Worth a bloody king’s treasury, too.” Bofur added, raising an eyebrow at the king as he deemed it safe to his headgear to approach them once more. “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day that you voluntarily gave up Orcrist, though, Thorin. After all, you resurrected with the bloody thing!”

“It’s not for me.” The king told him, ignoring the comment about his fondness for a certain ancient elvish blade. “Dwalin, when we get back to camp, see if you can find a new scabbard for it, I want-“

“ATTACK!” 

The breathless shout preceded the young dwarf into the room, two others on his heels. All three dwarf lords spun around, hands tightening on weapons hilts though there was no visible danger.

“Where?”

Thorin demanded harshly.

“C-camp!” 

The king did not bother to wait for further explanations, turning away to begin tossing aside several chests from the far right wall near the furnace.

“Thorin! What are ya doin’? We need to go!”

Dwalin’s voice buzzed urgently in his ear, but the king brushed it off, pulling his arm from the warrior’s grasp.

“No! There is another way!”

At that, his friend thankfully ceased argument, he and Bofur lending their weight to shift the last of the wood chests, ignoring the spill of gold and mithril coins as its top split open upon impact. Thorin put a shaky hand to the wall, fingers once more instinctively seeking out the proper catches to release yet another concealed door. Inside was a narrow stair full of cobwebs and dust, leading both up and down.

“Bless me!” Bofur spat out, eyes wide as he thrust a torch in to light up the area. “Where does that go?”

“Down!”

Dwalin snapped impatiently, a hearty shove propelling the other dwarf forward just seconds before Thorin’s own temper would have snapped.

“Market!”

Thorin added, not bothering to explain the new knowledge suddenly awakened within him. This had been the private stair used by the later Durins to access the forge from the new royal apartments on the sixth level, but the shorter downward stair also created a discrete entrance to the busy market hub in the back of Blain’s old shop. If the enemy had already cut off the stairwell, the smartest strategic move, this was their best chance of joining the battle without having to wade through their foes first.

As the three dwarrow approached the lower level, they could clearly hear the ring of weapons even through the muffling stone, making Thorin redouble his pace. Above them, several guards were having a hard time keeping up without tumbling down the stairs, but Thorin was not inclined to wait for them. Instead, he and Dwalin hit the bottom door at the same instant, a growl of frustration erupting from both throats when the mechanism seemed to grind and jam.

“One more time!” Dwalin shouted, and Thorin braced himself, waiting for the count. “Three, two, one-“

With a clatter from the other side, whatever had been blocking the door released, sending the two dwarrow stumbling right into the middle of a dozen or more goblins. The axes of the warmaster glinted as Dwalin bellowed in rage, wading into the enemy before his king could even straighten up. Thorin was right behind him, however, shouldering aside one of the creatures before swiping through another with the mithril blade he still held. It slid through boiled leather, flesh, bone, and rough metal armor with ease, leaving Thorin with a moment free to unsheathe Orcrist with his other hand. 

In less than a minute, the small shop they had come out of the stairwell in was awash with black blood and corpses as the king, the warrior, the councilor, and their handful of guards made short work of their foes. Goblins had never been the most dangerous creatures upon Middle Earth, relying more upon their overwhelming numbers and unconcern if another fell then any intelligence or great skill, so they were quickly cut down by the veteran warriors they faced. This allowed the king’s party a moment to collect themselves and assess the situation they had barreled into, the young guard who had warned them of the battle the first to speak now.

“Sire, you should not-“

Thorin cut the dwarf off before he could complete the suggestion, not interested in leaving others to fight a battle he had begun. His concern was focused elsewhere. If the fighting was already this far into the camp-

“You stay with us, all of you. Our priority is to find Prince Kíli, then-“

The floor beneath them shook, sending dwarrow scrambling to keep their balance. An elf came flying in the doorway to land atop the pile of slain foes with a wince before leaping fluidly back to his feet and back out into the fight. Bofur, the closest of them, leaned out the door after the departed elf, jerking his head back in with a wince as a massive hand swiped at him.

“Cave troll!”

“Du Bekar!”

Thorin’s yell led them out into the melee, where the giant brute was swinging wildly with an enormous hammer. The king dodged, barely avoiding a flying body as he aimed for the legs. Not even as intelligent as their mountain cousins, the huge cave trolls were little more than killing machines, especially when injured or cornered. Unfortunately for the dwarrow and their allies, this one was both.

Thorin swung both weapons at the back of the troll’s leg, grimacing at the power needed to get through the thing’s hide, even with the razor sharp blades he wielded. It was akin to hacking into a boulder! The creature at least gave him the satisfaction of bellowing in pain for his trouble, one hand alternately swatting and fishing for the one who would be so bold. It forced Thorin to pull back even as Dwalin scored a hit on the other leg. If they could hamstring the beast, bring it down, it would be easier to deal with.

Several arrows bouncing off the troll’s face gave it a new distraction, allowing the king to step in again, black blood spurting this time as he succeeded in slicing through its hide. The creature tumbled backwards, knocking several other fighters from their feet as the stone shook again. Dwarrow and elves mobbed the fallen figure, leaving the king free to turn away, looking for the heaviest fighting. If their foe recognized his nephews, they would most likely be targets.

Movement from the corner of his eye and a bellow of rage made the king twist to defend himself only to pull his blow when he saw the silvery-grey fabric tied around the other dwarf’s upper arm. The advancing fighter flung a dagger past his monarch to lodge in the throat of another, finding the unprotected area between the breast plate and helm. Nast gave his king a nod, pulling the knife free.

“There are cult among the dark creatures, be careful.” Nori’s son warned his king solemnly as the fighting weaved around them for a precious moment. “The bands were a good idea.”

Fearing a repeat of the Death Warrior’s favorite tactic, sneaking one of their own close to a target in the confusion of battle, Thorin and the other army leaders had come up with a solution. Every warrior was given a strip of cloth made in Lothlorien, and rarely seen outside that realm, to tie about their upper arm if an attack began, distinguishing friend from foe. It was far from fool-proof, but so long as the cult did not know of it until the first engagement, it would work. 

“Kíli?”

Thorin demanded, kicking the dead dwarf Nast had just slain aside. The younger dwarf nodded, acknowledging his monarch’s concern for the most vulnerable of his sister’s children.

“They were trying to get him to the stair, that way.”

That was all Thorin needed, plunging through the mass of bodies. He shoved aside more than he killed, working toward the stairs with single-minded purpose, dread growing in his belly. All of the attackers, with the exception of the one dwarf Nast had killed, were Mordor’s creatures. He saw orcs and Uruk-hai, goblins crawling down the walls and up from the wells, another cave troll and two hill trolls, even a giant wolf, but no dwarrow or men. Where were the rest of the cult’s warriors and what were they up to?

“Thorin! To the right!”

Head jerking around at Dwalin’s shout, he saw the mass of distorted, ugly creatures literally crawling over the bodies of their dead to reach their intended target. The dwarrow guards had formed a wedge in front of the three lords and now began pushing through in the direction the armsmaster had indicated. All their strength, however, was no match for the sheer number opposing them, the eight dwarrow were eventually forced to stop and press themselves into a rough circle of defense.

For several unending minutes, the king's party was fighting hard, pressed upon all sides as their entire concentration narrowed to taking down the next foe before them. There was nowhere to move, the group lifting higher as they were forced to stand on the fallen to battle the still living. It made for treacherous footing, but Thorin would not give up or give way, both swords now thick with the stinking, sticky black blood of the enemy.  
A body went down next to him, but Thorin could spare nothing more than a fleeting hope that Bofur had merely tripped and not been wounded. It left the king open on the right, however, and he spun, sending an orc head flying as two more snarled at him, clawing their way toward him. There were simply too many, the dwarf bracing himself even as he sought some escape or glimpse of hope. At that moment, a sudden indignant squeal from several Uruk-hai attracted Thorin’s attention. To his shock, several lithe figures were not only killing the dark attackers, but using their heads as a pathway to the beleaguered king!

“There he goes again!” Dwalin shouted, having marked a familiar white-blonde figure, kicking a goblin who had the gall to try to wrest Keeper from him. “Bloody elf!”

Just now, Thorin could not imagine a better sight than the elven prince and his compatriots, but that momentary distraction almost cost him dearly. A blade flashed in the corner of his eye and he spun, literally disarming an opponent even as Legolas dropped nearby and beheaded its partner.

“This way!”

Legolas directed the call to those behind him even as he nodded to the king, Thorin giving a grim smile in appreciation as he realized what the elves had done. Each had dropped into a knot of foes in a line, killing all around them to open a path to a barricaded half-circle of barrels. Thorin narrowed his eyes, using the lull to assess the situation even as he kicked another goblin who had slipped under the prince’s guard. 

From atop the small mound of the fallen that he stood upon, he could see that the main concourse was still flooded with fighting figures. Two trolls and the giant wolf had taken positions at the stairs to cut off any aid coming from the part of the army still camped on the first level as well as barring their escape. The path back to the store and its hidden stair was equally impossible, though one of the team on the upper level must have led more of the patrols working up there down it as dwarrow and men were flooding out of the doorway.

“No! Back behind your barrier!” His deep call stopped the first dwarf who had made to climb over the protecting barrels. “We hold here!”

“Agreed!”

Legolas called, scrambling to cover the dwarf king as he marched toward the barrier himself through the shield wall of elves. He waved his group forward, noting grimly that only six others responded instead of seven, and one of those was being supported by a slightly bloody Bofur. The goblins were pressing close again as he slid down the pile of orcs that had been giving him the vantage point. One of the elves went down, and Dwalin grabbed her, shoving her toward Legolas as the dwarf took her place.

An arrow whipped past the king, skewering another dwarf without an armband who had tried to join their band. So, the cult were here, just allowing their allies to do the bulk of the fighting once again. For dwarrow who prided themselves upon being warriors, they were doing an exceptional job of showcasing their cowardice instead. Another arrow followed the first, ruffling the king’s hair as it went by, and he grinned nastily. Someone had obviously ensured that Kíli had a bow and a good place to stand!

Quickly and expertly, the elves and Dwalin collapsed in the safe corridor behind him as Thorin scrambled over the last barrel comprising the makeshift protective barrier. The dwarrow guardsmen stepped up to the perimeter as the last of the elves lightly vaulted into the dubious safety area, taking over the fighting to allow their allies to catch their breath.

“We hold! Here!”

The king repeated, aiding Kíli down as an elven archer took his perch with a fresh quiver of arrows. He was heartened as Fíli, Therin, and Lis all greeted him, Gimli already back upon the battle line with his elven friend, roaring the ancient cry of the dwarrow as he sent another head flying. Family accounted for, Thorin turned back to his pocket of fighters, relieved that they had a sturdy rock wall to their backs, at least.

“Relief is coming!”

Even as he sounded that hopeful note, however, two of the defenders in the middle of the barrier went down, goblins eagerly flooding the gap. Thorin took one swipe with Orcrist, then spun, thrusting the mithril blade into Kili’s hands.

“Here!”

Fíli had already taken a position upon Kili’s other side, the three senior members of Durin’s Line standing together with their weakest fighter, Kíli, in the protected middle position. For Thorin, it was almost eerie, as the three had once stood in the same manner upon another field far to the north, facing the same foe, but with the two younger dwarrow insisting upon taking the guard positions to protect him, their king. All three had fallen then, but Thorin vowed to himself that it would not repeat this day.

Kíli stumbled, momentarily thrown off by the light weight or keen edge of the new blade, and Thorin was forced to swing Orcrist around sloppily, deflecting a large Uruk-hai into Fíli’s capable hands as he covered the brunette prince. Inwardly, Thorin cursed the circumstances, as picking up an unfamiliar weapon in the midst of battle was difficult for the most skilled fighter, let alone one who had not been able to practice for nigh on fourteen years. The prince, however, recovered quickly, as he had been drilled since he was only ten to use whatever came to hand and adjust, a lesson not easily forgotten by one who had grown up in exile. Within moments, his nephew had returned to the fight, showing the grace and agility he had not been able to display with heavier weapons since his injury.

Good thing, too, as the king gasped, a line of fire drawing over his ribs where an opponent took advantage of his distraction to sneak through his guard. It was only in that moment that Thorin realized he had neglected the habit of a lifetime, leaving camp with no more armor then the metal plated leather over-tunic, a stupid, and critical, lapse. He could feel the blood beginning to run down his side as he kicked the orc in the shin, then sliced its throat, gritting his teeth against the pain and further tearing of the skin. Wandering around a war zone without armor on, where had his head been? Was he trying to get himself killed? Again?

When no other opponents presented themselves, he allowed a moment to feel and accept the pain, though he refrained from putting a hand to his wound lest he give away a weakness to the enemy. Shouts rang out more than the clash of metal and he looked around to see the enemy fleeing the field, goblins scrambling straight down the wells they had come from while the last of the orcs and other creatures had bulled their way through to the stairs. Hopefully, more of his army would be lying in wait for them upon the first level. Around the once orderly camp, the dead lay in piles, too many to count, but Thorin saw many more pools of blood glinting black than red.

Still, the king could not prevent the shaking that took him as his stomach threatened to rebel, especially when several of his companions could not deny their own such weakness. Fíli was white faced and sweating, swallowing convulsively even as he held his younger brother, supporting Kili’s exhausted body as the brunette heaved, tears streaming down a too-pale face. Senata, whom Thorin did not even remember seeing earlier, was already at their sides, crushing herbs in her mortar and pestle. Therin and Lis were slumped next to one another on one of the supply crates, the dwarrowdam in a two-fold hug from her husband and twin as she cried, Legolas standing a silent guard over them. A presence at his side and hesitant touch upon his shoulder made the king instinctively begin to turn with sword to hand before he realized it was Frodo Baggins.

“Fíli is worried that you are wounded.”

Thorin grimaced, sparing a glance for his blonde nephew, whose haunted eyes connected with his over his brother’s head, the panic barely held at bay. He gave the lad a reassuring nod, but could tell that it did little to calm already taut nerves.

“A flesh wound only, hardly life threatening.” He told the hobbit, wearily scooping up a scrap of cloth to wipe down Orcrist so he could sheath it. “What happened here?”

“They came from nowhere. We were in the midst of moving the supplies, cataloging them, and then-“

Frodo gestured around, a glint of mithril showing through one tear in his sleeve. Good, at least one of them had the sense to keep armor on even when they were supposedly in a safe camp. Thorin could not hide the bitterness of that thought. This place was secure, untouchable. That was what they had all told themselves, even when the sentry was found dead this morning. He should have known better, should never have brought his people to a place where slaughter was their only reward!

“Thorin!”

The shout brought him around to see Bofur approaching with his son, Kifir, and nephew, Tombur, trailing behind. The councilor looked unscathed except for a small cut on his forehead which streaked blood down the side of his face, but his young kin were showing signs of graver injuries. Tombur limped on one leg while the opposite arm was already in a dirty sling, and Kifir was showing the beginnings of what would be a lovely black eye, the lids already swelling closed. It was the devastation on their faces, however, that made Thorin’s gut clench in fear.

“W-who?”

He could barely force the question past numb lips, though he thought he already knew the answer. He had not seen Nast since the lad saved his life in the middle of the fighting.

“Bifur.”


	18. A Crown of Light in Waters Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a ritual to proclaim a king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

18\. A Crown of Light in Waters Deep

Thorin slowly picked his way through the bodies of the slain, each face and splatter of red blood another blow to his already reeling conscience. How many times had the ax-ridden Broadbeam miner stood by him, who was not even his king, through the years? Azanulbizar, guiding them to Ered Luin, the new settlement, the quest… And it ended here, where so many others’ lives had also ended, Moria at last claiming her due from the final family group who had followed Thorin so faithfully. Balin, Fundin, Frérin, Thrór, Óin, Ori, now Bifur… How many times would he lead his people to such slaughter before he finally learned? Why must it always end in fire?

Casting about in despair, he stared at the contorted bodies, mind struggling with this new reality. There, to his left, two dwarrow, back to back, defending one another even in death. To the right, a man, then an elf with the russet hair of the Woodland Realm, a people who hated him, yet still here, dead. More pain, more death, more destruction-

“Why?!”

The scream tore through the cavernous hall, echoing from another age, another Durin, equally stricken with grief as he watched the bodies of his people burn. Thorin was not even aware that he had hit his knees by Mablung’s contorted corpse, lying next to Bifur’s, or that the scream that had filled his mind had been his own, startling all near enough and cognizant through their own pain to hear it. He paid no attention to Nast, Bofur, and a few others warily shepherding others away while Dwalin crouched next to his distraught king.

"Thorin!" He felt the hands on him, had to keep himself from snarling and shoving the other away, the intrusion profoundly unwelcome. Right now, he wanted nothing more than for someone else to feel the pain that he was in, friend or no. "Thorin, you're bleeding. We need to get you to the healers."

His old friend, however, was less real to the dwarf king right now than the red of the blood, the red of flame…

_Second Age, 699_

_Blain watched, numb, as the flames consumed the bodies of his uncle and oldest cousin’s child, little Dain, along with the thirteen others who had died this day. The cold metal of the royal circlet pressed down upon his brow, a weight far heavier than the material it was made from. He watched as flesh turned to ash, never to be reunited with the stone as was proper, and felt the fraud as tears ran unchecked down soot stained cheeks._

_His entire world seemed to be burning in that hot flame, and for the first time, he saw it as destructive, stealing away what should have been, instead of the force of creation he had so long deceived himself into believing he had harnessed to his will in the forge. He never felt the hands that guided him away, to the pools for bathing and proper garments in preparation for the vigil night by the Kheled-zaram, the ritual of kings._

It was the sting of a needle and the cold drip of water from a cloth that brought Thorin back to the present, though it was more as an observer than a participant. He made no move as the thread pulled through his sliced flesh, knitting the pieces together so that it might heal once more, barely felt the sting and tug. When had he come to the guardroom that the healers had taken as their own? 

There was no stir of curiosity about his own condition, just eyes slipping over the heads on makeshift pallets, blankets rising and falling with every painful breath, until one just across from him stilled, refusing to move again. The healer in attendance simply folded the rough wool over the dead man, a weary sigh the only acknowledgement of a hard fought battle lost once again. All were equal in death. It was the sight of the familiar unruly dark brown hair of the next patient that the exhausted healer checked on that finally drew Thorin back into the present long enough to speak one name.

“Kíli?”

Senata lifted her head from her careful stitchery, giving him a reassuring smile.

“He’ll be fine. Between the concussion he is still recovering from and the exhaustion, I wanted him where I could watch him for a while, that’s all.”

Mind awakening from the numb daze he had been in, Thorin’s blue eyes bore into hers, searching for any sign of well-meaning deceit. 

“Fíli and Therin?”

Now the healer snorted, rolling her eyes, a typical response when dealing with the princes of Durin.

"Fíli’s fine, superficial cuts and bruises. He's asleep on the floor on the far side of Kili's cot. He, at least, was smart enough to keep a mail shirt on even in camp-"

"I had taken it off to be repaired!"

Thorin objected, though he did not have the heat in the words they normally would contain. Not that it would garner any attention from the healer anyway. Senata had learned her selective hearing from her mentor, Óin. Sure enough, it only earned him another eye roll as she continued as if he had not spoken, one of the few outside his family who would dare such blatant disrespect to their king.

"-Unlike a certain king I could name whose side has been neatly flayed open to his ribs and whose scar will not be nearly so neat if he does not stop moving!" Thorin bit back the sharp retort, simply too heart sick to allow his temper free rein. "Therin will have a spectacular black eye where he dropped his guard on the left again, a mirror of Kifir's. I've already sent both those two off with poultices, though I think Master Dwalin meant to have a word or two with them."

More like three or four, along with hours of practice to correct the sloppy guard. Thorin nodded absently, thankful once more for the steady support of the large warrior. Dwalin would see that his nephew was alright, and that he would not ever make the same mistake again.

"How many dead and wounded?"

He did not wish to hear the answer, but knew he must, to understand the scope of the disaster he had brought them to. In his mind, another voice whispered sadly to his wife as they watched the burning pyre.

_“How many have we lost that fifteen in one day is considered not only a blessing, but a mere trifling?”_

Senata's hands stilled, head ducking as she blinked away tears.

"That one across from us was fifty-nine that I know of, but the count will go higher. Wounded, I have lost count completely."

_"We do not expect twenty-one more to last the week, Blain. The death toll will reach twenty thousand then."_

_"Almost one third of our population!"_

_The about to be crowned king murmured in horror, unable to fully grasp such a reality. How could his people have been brought to this? What had their stubborn insistence upon holding onto the insults of the past done to them? He had witnessed elven medicine too many times to discount the aid that would have been given and what it would have meant for his people, had the king only been willing to ask._

_The population had only just regained the high mark it held at the end of the First Age, despite the influx of refugees from the ruined cities of the Broadbeams and the Firebeards... Reglin rested a hand upon his shoulder as tears streamed unchecked down the young dwarf's face._

_"I know you are exhausted and grieving, lad, but our people sorely need a leader, and the only way that will happen is if you stand vigil tonight."_

Thorin understood then what he must do. It was time to complete the ancient rites that would formally acknowledge him as king of Khazad-dûm, and seek the guidance of Mahal in how to lead his people forward, even as Balin had done when faced with the despair of knowing their ancient foe had returned, taking the life of Kíli before Erebor. Even as Blain now did, his heartbreak and reeling for the proper path a reflection of Thorin's own turmoil.

Later on, he knew he must have spoken to someone about what he intended, because none spoke to him or barred his path as he made his way down to the small guardroom off the entrance to the city. Standing before the far wall, he allowed a single drop of his blood to bead on the end of his finger, then touched the key stone. Obediently, the door slid from its hidden base, allowing the king to enter into the plain, cold room, a trough cut into the floor its only furnishings.

_Servants entered on silent feet, pouring the water into the waiting bath as Blain stripped his clothing off, allowing it to drop to the floor with a disregard he never would tolerate at any other time. They would be taken and burned in the forge flame at the center of the kingdom, he knew. One foot stepped into the water, bumps raising on his skin at the chill, though he did not say a word._

The cloth ran over Thorin’s skin inch by inch, nothing overlooked, and he blinked, realizing that it was Fíli and Therin aiding the preparations. His oldest nephew looked strained, mouth tight and eyes red-rimmed as he concentrated upon every swipe of the cloth. The cost to the prince was beyond his comprehension, to be standing here now, battling the rising panic with every breath to attend his uncle in what must seem the worst timing. They had planned for this ritual, all knowing their parts, but not until the city was securely theirs once more. Reaching out, Thorin laid a hand along the side of Fíli’s face, all the comfort he could offer in this moment, receiving a faint smile in return.

_Blain held patiently still as hands undid every clip, braid and ornament in his hair and beard slowly, feeling their way. Thain stood waist deep in the water, sightless eyes fixed on the darkness beyond his cousin. This was for only the closest of blood-kin, to wash away the former life of the one who would be king, and the blind prince was the only one he had left. A shudder went through the younger dwarf as the last of his ornaments was stripped away._

_It was odd, this feeling of nakedness, of being without any of what made him ‘Blain’, though he knew now that the name was merely a label meant to hide him from his enemies until Durin II was able to take his rightful place. This was as it should be, though, for he was returning to the stone to await the making of Mahal, whatever the result. Dripping, he slowly pulled himself out of the stone trough, accepting the rough toweling then standing still as his attendants inspected him to ensure that every last trace of dirt had been washed away._

Inspection passed, Thorin stood as a rough tunic of homespun wool was pulled over his head, the grey-black of the dye still smelling pungent. He gasped as some of the coarse fibers caught at the newly stitched wound in his side, a few trickles of blood slowly finding their way down his side. Knowing what was to come next, the king held out his wrists, but Fíli blanched, quaking hands dropping the rope as he turned and fled from the room. Thorin longed to call to him, but those who were as yet rough stone, unforged in Mahal’s sight, could not speak. It had always been planned for that to be Kili’s part, and never spoken of within the oldest prince’s hearing.

Therin swiped the rough cord from the ground with a scowl, which only lessened slightly when the sounds of distressed retching came from the direction in which his older brother had fled. Turning back to his uncle, the young dwarf started to place the bindings, signifying the would-be king’s total submission to the will of the Valar for his life, then stopped, fingers tracing the bracelets of scar tissue already present on Thorin’s wrists. Therin swallowed hard, but the hands that tied the cord were steady.

_Blain held still as the cloth was folded over his eyes, a pang in his heart whispering that this was the only reality his cousin would now know. Hands guided him as he walked, the smooth stone floor giving way to steps and then the rough ground, making him stumble. Whoever walked with him did not allow him to fall, however, instead holding on tightly until he was solidly balanced once more._

_He could hear the soft creak of leather and the metallic clang of armor as more dwarrow joined them. He frowned, knowing that there were not supposed to be guards that close, but also realizing that someone had the sense to overrule tradition in the interests of safety. He did not have an heir and they had been attacked not far from this very spot only hours ago. He was pushed down, knees hitting the cold, sharp stone with almost bruising force, then the blindfold was ripped away._

Thorin had feared the memories that would accompany his return to this spot, but when the cloth fell away, he could not hold back the gasp. Though the stone under him had been worn smooth by the many dwarrow who had knelt here over the years, they were not in the same spot where he had released the ashes of his grandfather and brother. Instead, the monument that supposedly marked the spot of Durin’s kneeling to look into the lake was about twenty-five feet to his left. How had they missed such a thing? And how had his nephews known to guide him here now? 

_Trembling slightly, the young smith bent over the water, bound hands about to break the surface when he paused, awed. Beside him, he heard the strangled gasp of one of the guards, the torch light reflected in the water moving until it was just behind him. Though Blain knew that the two guards now leaned over, holding the torches, only the flame and his own image stared back from the mirror-still waters._

Thorin gazed into his own stern blue eyes, the sight still sending a thrill of disbelief down his spine. This time, no other faces joined his. His hands shook slightly as he breached the surface, cupping the mouthful to bring to his lips.

_Blain took a deep breath, bringing the shockingly cold water to his lips. A sense of peace flowed through him, wiping away all fear, doubt and uncertainty, as if another now knelt there, a possessor of knowledge, ancient and sure in every movement._

His hands changed, scars and other marks reforming themselves, pausing six times to create a stranger’s fingers and palm, yet each as familiar as his own. Thorin closed his eyes as the ritual intonation rolled off his tongue in the rich, thick sounds of his native language. As it echoed from the surrounding rocks, the voice changed, turning into six distinct ones, each speaking the words with him.

**‘Mahal accept this one of Durin’s blood. My hand, burned by the fires of your will; My hand, bruised by the rock with which you made the Khazad; My hand, hard as forged steel as blood runs in defense of your people; My hand, as smooth as the waters, holding the life of a babe, our people continued. May my life be yours, should you find it worthy.’**

_Blain had never been taught the ritual words, known only to the Lore Keeper, King and Heir, but when his feet had tried to turn him to the only one of those three yet alive, they would not move. When that worthy leaned close as he was led blind to this place, intent on whispering the words, his ears would not hear. He knew now that they did not need to; the oath was already written upon his soul. With scarcely a breath left, he brought the water up and swallowed, knowing that if he was found unworthy, it would be a swift death, the liquid turning to poison, body never surfacing from the pool. Instead, the only sensation he felt was a very prosaic headache from the icy temperature._

Thorin almost spit out the water as a tooth he had cracked a week ago screamed in protest. Only his sheer stubbornness allowed him to clamp his jaw shut in time, the liquid slowly warming until he could swallow. A thousand different tastes exploded in his mouth, each one provoking memories, dashes of personal history laying bare his hopes and dreams, failures and sorrows in equal measure. 

Greed, pride, vanity, ego, pettiness and minor cruelties – was this the one who presumed to believe himself worthy of leading Mahal’s children?

A terrified hobbit, pleading with him to see reason, to stop this madness before more blood than Smaug had claimed soaked the desolation outside the mountain. Betrayal in the eyes of a nephew, white faced and in pain, as he watched an uncle turn away, calling him weak. The sneer of a prideful leader, a kind word met with a flash of temper instead of thanks, words designed to cut as deep as the sharpest blade…

_Hands patiently guiding smaller ones in the first lesson of forge work, though the parents had nothing with which to pay apprentice price. Steady words in the ear of a king, slowly curbing an ancient prejudice with an eye toward turning it into an alliance. Gaining permission hard won for his apprentice Narvi to exchange knowledge with a visiting Noldor smith._

Respect given to Elrond and Galadriel. An apology to a hobbit who sought only to save him from himself. An agreement with a Ranger to teach his nephew a most undwarrow-like weapon. An elven arrow striking a foe seeking his back as his own gleaming blade bit into one set to slay the archer. The hand of a king of men clasping his in gratitude as the gleaming gates of a white city were restored to their rightful place.

These were the actions of a King. Of a Durin.

Images assaulted him then, causing him to sway. Thorin never felt himself fall into the water, body sinking swiftly to the bottom.


	19. A New King Rises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin completes the ritual and another clue to the identity of the cult leader is given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

19\. A New King Rises  


As the would-be king's body sank to rest upon the bottom of the pool of water, his mind ranged far, seeking what images Mahal would show to guide his coming reign.

_*Durin I smiled as he saw what the years and skill of his people might create, though flashes of an indefinable darkness and fire troubled his heart. He began to make plans for a future he knew could not be avoided, building a refuge that would stand against the evil days to come.*_

_*Durin II could not stop the tears as he surveyed the great hall, the scene of so many a merry feast with his uncle and cousins, filled now only with death. Elves and dwarrow lay cold and still, many with weapons still lodged in each other’s bodies, death bringing a unity that life could not abide. Around him, the king watched as walls darkened and crumbled, twisted, dark creatures darting from shadow to shadow. The gleaming pile of riches upon the feast table called to him, but as the king reached out a trembling hand, all turned to ash. Standing tall as the vision began to fade, he vowed to himself to never let this horror become true.*_

_*Durin III had seen the ring of sunflowers he stood within blacken and tangle, petals becoming the fangs of snakes biting those surrounding it. One hand resting against the sealed doors of Khazad-dûm, he mourned that he had understood too late.*_

_*Durin IV had seen only a single ray of sun breaking the roiling surface of a titanic storm to light up his face. When the time came and the foreseen winds howled around his kingdom and his heart, he allowed that single ray, that shred of hope, to settle within his soul and never let go, even when faced with the hate-filled, crazed eyes of his only son.*_

_*Durin V had recoiled in horror as the small mithril statue of the drake made to honor his ancestor came to life in a frenzy, clawing at his heart. Though the meaning had become clear in time, he could not bring himself to take the actions necessary to thwart its dark promise.*_

_*Durin VI had sneered as his mounds of wealth took fire, cascading down upon him. Instead, he pushed the image forever from his mind as the result of ancient folly and superstition, even as the Balrog’s whip descended.*_

_*Durin VII did not try to stop the tears as the ancient halls became bright with color and life all around him, the ring of forge hammers a sweet accompaniment to the laughter of children at play. This was what he asked his people to sacrifice for! In fact, as if thought had summoned them, the dead appeared around him, smiling and nodding in satisfaction as they, too, took in what their deaths had won._

_Balin clapped a hand to his back, a twinkle in his eye as Óin called out a greeting, ear trumpet poised to catch the reply. Bifur showed a child the toy he had made, and Mablung gave a salute to the dwarf king. Thrain nodded proudly, wife on his arm, and Vidri simply stood to the side, tears running down his own beaming face. Fundin leaned over to gently correct a child’s grip on their first hammer, and Thrór sparred with Dori. To one side, Dain, Nain and Thorin Stronghelm were quietly conversing. As one, they turned and bowed to Durin. Beyond were so many he did not know personally, but he knew why they were here, nodding in approval at his work, which their blood at purchased at a price so dear, all happy, content. Save one._

_Flames caught the king’s attention, slow steps carrying him toward one wreathed in fire. Around him, the happy chatter seemed to falter and die, giving way to a cackling, malicious and insane. This, then, was his foe. He edged closer, noting how the corner where the figure stood had become enveloped in a darkness whose tendrils reached out, destroying all that they touched._

_As Durin stepped cautiously from the bright kingdom restored into the darkness of the crumbling rock, a fetid odor hit him, worse even than the stench of Azanulbizar’s aftermath. Understanding came with gut-wrenching clarity. This, then, was what the dreams and memories had been trying to warn of, an enemy that must be confronted lest all his work fail and the dwarrow race fade to mere myth. But who was it that could so wish their own people harm? He inched ever closer, palms itching for the reassuring weight of a hilt tightly gripped._

_“Hello, Thorin.”_

_The malicious chuckle distorted his name, twisting it into a curse in a way not even Smaug had managed._

_“Who are you?” He snarled back, tears streaming down his face as he watched his people turn to dust with the touch of the shadow. “How could you wish such torment upon your own people?”_

_The figure seemed to pause, then thrust itself into his face, fire making his skin crackle and burn as he screamed, high and long. The last thing the king saw before unconsciousness gave relief to his torment was a glimpse of a familiar, trusted face.*_

With a gasp, Thorin surfaced in the center of the pool, water streaming down his face as hands, now unbound, paddled to keep himself afloat. He could not stop the trembling as one hand wiped down features unburned, pain fading with the vision. With another deep breath, he plunged back down into the deep, hands finding the rough cloth that he had been clothed in mere minutes ago and bringing it to the surface with him.

_Blain smiled as he clutched the makeshift bag to him, one hand and feet kicking toward the shore. Within, he knew, were the stones of the king, markers representing the ones he trusted the most in his soul, both living and dead. They would be given out in the days ahead, each one as unique and treasured as the dwarf that it represented. For now, he had a people who needed their king._

Thorin reached up, accepting the aid of Therin and Fíli as they pulled him from the waters of the Kheled-zâram, a blanket ready to wrap around his naked form. His legs refused to hold his weight as he slumped back to his knees, his nephews sinking with him.

“Thorin?” Fíli whispered hesitantly as the king brought one hand up to cup his nephew’s face, eyes drinking in every last wrinkle and braid of hair as if seen for the first time. “What did you see?”

“Death.” The prince blanched, making to pull away, but Thorin’s hand slid around to the back of his head, keeping him in place. “I saw the death of our race if we do not end this here, now, and for that, I will need Kíli. I am sorry, Fíli.”

The blonde closed his eyes; a deep breath exhaled, seeming to take the weight of a mountain with it.

“I understand. We will do what we must.”

Energy renewed, Thorin thrust himself to his feet, accepting the rich velvets that his nephews held out to him. Dwalin was standing just beyond them, back tensed as he stared out into a night that was fast fading into the coming dawn, but he was not the only guard. Further out, the light peeking over the mountain touched upon a ring of men, elves, dwarrow, and one hobbit, standing as a living shield for the king.

Catching Fíli’s eye, he tilted his head in silent question, though at their motive, not their right to be there, even if they heard some of the ancient words he had spoken. If Middle-Earth was to have true peace at last, they must learn to respect one another’s practices, and too much secrecy would only serve to further the distrust. 

“They followed, silently. We weren’t exactly in a position to tell them not to, and none so much as attempted to look over their shoulder once we were here. Besides, there was just a feel of…correctness about it. I-I know it isn’t proper, but-“

“No, Fíli, you acted rightly.” The conservatives among them would protest, but Thorin was not above using his new position to tell them where to take such objections. “This was for all of us, dwarrow, elves and men alike.” 

He had now seen too much of what the arguments of the past had brought to all of them. He might not ever be comfortable in the presence of some elves, but there were a few he was also beginning to call friend. As he dressed, he tried to remember actually deciding upon starting this ritual, mind a curious blank after Senata sewed up his side. 

“Here, Thorin, this needs to go over those stitches first.”

Fíli quietly told him, approaching his uncle with a small metal bowl. The ointment within was cold on his skin, but not as bad as the water had been, and it immediately soothed the burning ache along his side. The blonde then took a small pad of clean cloth, binding it over the wound to protect it before stepping back with a nod.

“I do not remember leaving the healers’ area.”

Thorin finally admitted, voice muffled as he pulled the dark blue under tunic over his head. Nearby, Dwalin snorted, words carrying over to them though the warrior did not turn from his guard post.

“Aye, we gathered that when you tried to walk through a wall before we even blindfolded ya. Balin warned me that some of the ancient rituals contained a power of their own, but I’d forgotten.”

Thorin nodded absently, allowing his nephews to lead him to a boulder, where both princes began combing out his hair. As they worked, the king’s eyes went to the distant peaks of the mountains under which his kingdom lay, so clear in the morning sun. Odd, that Zirakzigil should look misshapen… 

The king sucked in a breath as he recalled the old wizard, Gandalf, telling of his battle with the Balrog and realized he was looking at the far off ruins of Durin’s Tower, normally shrouded in clouds. Would the body of the dark creature still be there, poisoning the peak, or had the pure sunlight burned away its evil once and for all? It was one more item to add to his list of what must be dealt with, but he knew that this was a journey he could not take alone. It remained to be seen if the others would still consent to follow, to put their faith in one whose judgment had been flawed, or if he had already doomed himself to failure.

“Come. I want everyone except the sentries gathered on the market concourse.”

*****888******

By the time the princes had arraigned him in suitable garb and armor, dwarrow, elves and men were all crowded together, shifting restlessly in the vast space. To one side was a pile of orc and goblin bodies that had yet to be disposed of, and someone had the foresight to spread fresh hay and herbs upon the floor where so much blood had been spilled. 

Nodding in approval, Thorin made a note that they would need to set torches around the blood patches until each one could be cleaned. Such things were notorious for attracting the highly poisonous rock vipers that lived in the deep caverns of the south, feeding upon hot blood. Nor would it do to attract rats, whose fleas and mites carried all manner of diseases.

Interesting, that many of the somewhat reluctant allies were no longer attempting to put space between themselves and anyone of a different race. Instead, there were actual groupings of dwarf, elf, and man standing silently together without attempting bloody mayhem. Of course, for every one of those he saw, there were two more exchanging glares, hands occasionally straying to weapons hilts as if wishing to be anywhere but here. Well, those would be even less pleased when the king was finished!

Someone, probably Bofur, had arranged several supply crates into a makeshift stair and platform, allowing Thorin to raise above the milling crowd. He bounded up it with renewed energy, giving a grateful nod to the sorrowful councilor where he stood just below it. Bifur deserved to have the ritual entombment of a hero, but Thorin would accede to what the family wished.

“As many of you know, I have spent the night in one of the ancient rituals of the dwarrow people. It is traditional for our kings to spend vigil the night before they are acknowledged upon the shores of Kheled-zâram, which I have done!”

There was some muttering at that, especially among the older dwarrow, as one of their most sacred, and secret, rights was spoken of in the presence of outsiders for the first time. Thorin knew the taboos he broke might bring more anger down upon him, and even drive a few into the arms of the cult, but it was necessary for their allies to understand the full import of the words he now spoke. Taking a deep breath, he allowed his voice to wash over the crowd.

“I have knelt in the steps of Durin, and looked into the still waters. There, the crown long hidden in watery depths rose to shine about my head. I, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, grandson of Thrór, of the line of Durin, am Durin VII, the Last and Returned as foretold in our most ancient texts! Will you, the free Peoples of Middle Earth, heed my claim to the throne of Khazad-dûm and aid in its retaking, not just for the dwarrow, but for all peoples who hold no ill in their hearts to come and go as they will?”

Several of the elves paled as they heard publically acknowledged for the first time what rumors had been whispering for the last fourteen years – that the ancient dwarrow father truly had returned. Some among them surely remembered one or more of the other Durins, perhaps even met them. They, of all the assembled, would have the best idea of what this could mean. 

Interesting, though, that while many of their leaders had known of this for years, they did not share it with most of their people, even after committing warriors to helping him here. Then again, those who appeared the most upset also bore the red hair coloring of the Woodland Realm, not the brown, black or blonde common in Rivendell and Lothlorien.

Thorin shifted his gaze to their other allies, interested to see how the more worldly, less mystical men would assess such a claim. Men shifted for foot to foot, murmuring among themselves, some scoffing in open disbelief while others merely shrugged. They, Thorin was certain, did not quite know what to make of his announcement, but most were willing to wait and see. After all, they did just have a king return, an event that many had said would never come to pass.

The dwarrow, of course, roared approval, weapons glinting in the torchlight as they were shook in the air, owners screaming at the top of their voices. As the king held up his hands for quiet, his pride in his people swelled, for each dwarrow clan wasted no time in voicing their approval, each according to their traditions.

“Durin’s Folk hail our King! May his beard grow ever longer and his forge fire never fail!” 

A beat behind that, his two conscious nephews added their parts. 

“I, Fíli, Prince of Erebor, acknowledge Thorin Oakenshield, Durin VII, as King of Khazad-dûm! Erebor stands ever at the ready to the call of her king!”

“I, Therin, Prince of Durin’s Blood, stand in for my cousin, Nalin, son of Dwalin, Prince of the Iron Hills, and acknowledge the return of Durin as Lord of Khazad-dûm. The Iron Hills will ever answer the call of kin!”

That, of course, was not strictly true, something Dwalin had been quick to point out when he heard the proposed wording. Thorin had waved that away, knowing that the Iron Hills would never again make a similar mistake while guided by the steady hand of its newly appointed prince.

“Broadbeams pledge mattock and mastery to the King of Khazad-dûm! We will return the mines to their former glory!”

“Ironfists will stand, axes every ready, awaiting Durin’s word! Khazad-dûm shall be defended to the last dwarf!”

“Firebeards pledge the ring of hammers revived in Durin’s forge and a careful accounting of every piece!”

“Stiffbeards will stand steady behind Durin Returned, never moving except by his will! We will be the strong backs and rolling wheels to carry the commerce of Middle Earth!”

“Stonefoots stand ready to supply the fires once more! The coal shall come from the east!”

There was dead silence as the expected seventh voice did not immediately join the growing chant. All turned to stare at the small group of Blacklocks, several of the gazes already openly hostile. The black-haired dwarf who led them glared right back before turning to stare up at Thorin.

“The Blacklocks will heed the words of the Lord of Khazad-dûm.”

It was grudging, and hardly the enthusiastic pledge of the others, but Thorin still breathed a sigh of relief. If the seven had not been willing to stand with him this time…

There was a stir among the men as Balan, the tall Dúnedain, pushed his way to the fore. Once there, he swept his upper body into a full courtly bow, an action so out of keeping with his rough clothing and wilderness wise ways that Thorin heard Bofur stifle a chortle. To Thorin, it was a needed reminder that this man also carried the blood of ancient kings, though several relations removed from the line of direct descent.

“A beg pardon for my absence, Lord Durin. A messenger arrived from my cousin and king in Minas Arnor.”

Thorin silently inclined his head in acknowledgement, taking the sealed parchment from the ranger. He glanced at it, intending to set it aside to read later only to have both eyebrows hike up in shock at what he saw. The letter was addressed to Durin VII, Lord of Khazad-dûm, and the crest pressed into the wax was the official winged crown and stars, not Aragorn’s personal sigil. How had the man known that Thorin would declare his title openly now? Quickly, the king broke the seal, scanning the message before returning his attention to the army before him.

“King Elessar of Gondor sends greetings and a pledge of alliance to the King of Khazad-dûm! What word is to be returned? That petty arguments and spurious suspicions of any whose race is not our own divide us? That we cower before a surprise attack and assassins sent to slay our leaders? That we do the enemy’s work for him?”

**“NO!”**

The roar of utter rejection that greeted that notion filled the vast hall, making the very stones ring with denial and renewed purpose. As he repeated some of the same points made only yesterday morning by his nephews, he caught the eye of both Fíli and Therin, giving them a nod of approval. Fíli smiled slightly in response, the skin around his eyes barely crinkling, but his uncle knew this was not from lack of emotion. The oldest prince would not be whole until his younger brother stood at his side again. 

Therin, by contrast, puffed up so much that Thorin almost regretted his action. He had hoped that the fact that the boy had come up with some of the notions meant he was finally using his head for more than a blunt force weapon! Returning his attention to the army, the king raised both hands, waiting for the silence to descend once more before speaking.

“Hear, then. Hear all of you, my pledge to the Free Peoples of Middle Earth! Khazad-dûm will be restored to the center of commerce it once was, welcoming all who come in peace. But we will also be the strong walls, the refuge held secure for any who need it should evil surface once more. And the wealth that is amassed here will be used not just for the welfare of dwarrow, but for all Middle Earth, that we may live in peace and plenty! In token of that, new doors shall be raised upon the eastern gate, but they will not answer to one word for friend; they will be inscribed with the word in every language! Let past anger and hurt be left outside the gates as we begin anew!”


	20. Secrets in Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a bit of levity, and another clue as to the identity of the leader of the cult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

20\. Secrets in Stone 

It was several nights later before Thorin had the leisure to deal with the stones, though he had been meaning to examine the contents of the makeshift bag since he had surfaced with them. Unfortunately, after his triumphant acknowledgement as the King of Khazad-dûm, the reality of the enormous task still facing them had presented itself in the worst possible way. Sentries on the far end of the market had heard someone or something creeping about in the night just beyond their reach, morning bringing a horrific sight. There, lined up neatly, had been the heads of the missing patrol, each with their weapons.

The reactions to the unexpected, and gruesome, find had been many and varied. Some had begun to whisper that the ancient city was haunted by the spirits of the dead dwarrow seeking vengeance, while others said it was some new, unknown creature who dogged their steps. Most, however, had acceded to the view held by their commanders; that it was yet one more way the cult sought to scare or enrage them. 

Kíli, though, had heard a different rumor circulating among some of the dwarrow- that somehow, one of the members of Balin’s colony yet lived. They said that no orc or cult member would have the respect to return the weapons of the fallen warriors unbroken and the heads unmutilated. When the prince had shared that with Thorin, the king had huffed in disbelief, cursing the cruel twisting of hope that the Death Warriors seemed intent upon, for that was surely what this was. A trick, meant to tease and confuse, so like many of the cult’s actions the past few days.

It had become clear that the cult had expected a much more rash reaction from Thorin’s forces. Dwarrow, when faced with such an outrage as the attack upon their camp and the assassinations of two of their leaders, would normally go into berserker rages. In fact, Thorin and the other leaders had been hard pressed to prevent just such a reaction, especially after the discovery of the heads. The acknowledgement of Thorin as king, however, had come at exactly the right time, giving him the authority to stop the growing cries for revenge cold. Even if only a dozen years before, he would most likely have been leading the charge, as he had after his grandfather’s death.

As the army instead proceeded more cautiously, they had found hastily created deadfalls, pits, and other traps that those blinded by a berserker haze would have easily fallen prey to. When instead, these traps were seen and dismantled, voices had called and heckled, orcs and goblins appearing just out of reach or striking fast and then running before the allies could give chase. One of those patrols had found the dagger that had undoubtedly stolen the lives of Mablung and Bifur, still coated with their blood, stuck into some rotted wood. When the weapon was examined, it bore the symbol of the Death Warriors, long forbidden in the dwarrow kingdoms, etched into the blade.

At least their wounded had been taken care of. Lord Celeborn had used his time since leaving the army outside the gates to actually do something productive. He had returned to Rivendell and found all with the knowledge of healing who would consent to come, bringing them over the Redhorn Pass to Lothlorien. The Golden Wood had been fading since the Lady Galadriel’s departure, many moving to Rivendell, Ithilien, or the Woodland Realm, so there were plenty of empty dwellings in the protected heart of the forest to house the injured.

The men and elves were grateful for such care, and the most sorely wounded among the dwarrow, the only ones they dared send, could physically do no more than glare, if they were conscious at all, so it seemed to be working. The arrival of reinforcements, not only from Aragorn, but also from several of the eastern dwarrow kingdoms, had begun to make Thorin suspect they just might succeed!

With Kíli recovered, or so he claimed, they had also returned to the slow work up the great stair. It would be no more than another few days, at most, before they reached the upper twenty-first hall and the Chamber of Mazarbul, where Balin rested. That would occasion another round of ceremonies, as those dwarrow of the first colony were properly memorialized. It was also when he and Dwalin believed that the cult would next strike in force. Their enemy knew the solemnity and focus required of such rights, and would probably take delight in such blatant sacrilege. 

Thankfully, there were enough men and elves to stand guard, allowing all dwarrow who wished to attend to do so. Of course, there was the more practical problem of how they would get them all into such a small space… Voices approaching broke Thorin from his thoughts to see his nephews, followed closely by Dwalin, enter the small shop. They had taken over Blain’s old store as a precaution, mostly because it allowed ready access to an escape for the royals should the camp be attacked again.

“Did you see your sister off?”

“Aye, and very excited to see Lothlorien, though I can’t imagine why.”

Therin flopped down with a huff as he spoke, disdain for the idea of visiting any place elven clear. At Thorin’s request, Lis and Gimli had consented to returning to their home in Aglarond, a move the king had urged once it became clear that Mablung and Bifur had been killed by a blade to the base of the neck, the killing style of an assassin. There, hopefully, at least two of his kin would be beyond the reach of the cult’s daggers. He only wished that he could send his three nephews to safety, as well!

The fact that Therin had been distancing himself from his brothers had not helped, either. At least with Fíli and Kíli, Thorin knew he could trust that they would watch each other’s backs, but Therin… The boy had always been touchy, but lately was inclined to grow any perceived slight in word or deed out of proportion to any reality, especially if it originated with Kíli.

As the older two princes settled themselves on the far side of the fire from the youngest, their uncle sighed, noting the telltale signs of another battle and contemplating intervening for a moment before dismissing the notion. None of them would talk to him about it, either, brushing off his concern with murmurs of the cares he already shouldered. Therin had begun spending most of his time with the members of his patrol, and his brothers would keep their own counsel. Come to think of it, Fíli and Kíli had become good friends with Legolas, perhaps he would be willing to aid Thorin with the whole mess!

The elven prince had decided to stay with the army instead of accompanying Gimli and Lis, citing the need for a clear leader for his race within Khazad-dûm as Elladan and Elrohir had gone to aid in the care of the worst wounded, both healer trained by their father. Privately, Thorin suspected that his remaining had more to do with a certain red-headed elven warrior who had refused to leave, though she was wounded as well.

As if such thoughts had summoned them, two more tall figures appeared in the doorway, folding down onto the stone floor when Thorin waved a hand in invitation.

“Tauriel is settled?”

Kíli asked the elven prince as Legolas gratefully accepted a steaming cup of coffee from Fíli. Thorin muted Therin’s gag of disgust with a disapproving glare. Such antics were more appropriate to a dwarfling of fifty-one, not the ninety-one the prince now claimed! The guard captain had taken a crossbow bolt just above the right knee during the fighting, and it had become infected.

“Yes, though if her temper does not abate with the fever, I have considered leaving her to your tender mercies. You now have matching scars to match your irritation with taking aid, after all.” Thorin raised an eyebrow at the elf, wishing he would not bait the other prince quite so blatantly, but Legolas smiled, a teasing light sparking in his eyes. “Perhaps Vestri would not look askance upon a somewhat more handsome archer prince?”

Kíli almost choked on the bread he had been chewing, eyes widening in mock alarm before he grinned, tossing the piece of carrot still in his hand at the elf. In a feat of elven dexterity, Legolas managed to skewer the airborne vegetable on one of his daggers, nibbling on it contentedly.

“Oh, no, you get your own, Ves is mine!” Kili’s smile turned slightly malicious. “Besides, you wouldn’t survive more than a day with Glóin as your marriage-father!”

Legolas winced, conceding that point while the others who knew Glóin chortled at the very idea. That would engender such a fit of rage form the fiery old dwarf that not only would there be nothing left of the elf when he was through, but probably precious little of Erebor as well! Beside Legolas, the newest prince to join their band smiled at the high spirits.

“I keep telling Legolas he should send her to the city guard instead!”

Faramir grinned as Dwalin began roaring with laughter at the suggestion, the others sitting in puzzled silence. Thorin blinked, then remembered a long ago discussion with his shield-brother after the latter’s return from the south and snorted.

“I don’t get it.”

Therin huffed, not in the least amused at being left out. Faramir shrugged, seemingly not offended by the grumpy young dwarf. The Prince of Ithilien had come with the re-enforcements for Gondor, intending to only stay for a day or two to consult with Thorin. When he had learned of Mablung’s death, however, he had changed his plans, despite the unease the dwarf king felt about ensuring the man’s safety.

“As Master Dwalin knows since he served in times past with the Gondorian forces, it is an old barracks joke.” Faramir’s explanation drew Thorin back to the conversation in time to smack his war master on the back as he laughed so hard he finally began to cough and choke. “The city guard and trainers were drawn from those who could be spared from the fighting with Mordor – those who bore disabling injuries such as an arrow to the knee.”

“I am certain they were not recalcitrant in telling such tales to the would-be heroes they trained, either.”

Thorin added, sharing an unspoken understanding with the war veterans among the small gathering. Therin, however, scoffed.

“If they allowed a little thing like an arrow wound to slow them down, they deserved to be left behind with the children! Real warriors-“

“Real warriors would know when to shut up.”

Kili’s low, heated words made the younger prince’s face darken in outrage, but Thorin cut both of them off.

“Real warriors, Therin, would know that even a seemingly minor wound can prove critical in combat, and accede to staying behind so that they do not further endanger their company.” The king deliberately did not allow his gaze to stray to Kíli as he spoke, though he sometimes wondered if the brunette had ever truly understood that lesson. “There is no shame in being wounded, only in being stupid about it.”

From the icy blue glare of Fíli’s eyes on him, he knew he would be hearing about this later, but he did not care. The decision to place the quest before his kin had been one of the hardest he had ever made, and one of the few that did not trouble his sleep at night. No matter how unfeeling it had seemed at the time, he was certain that taking Kíli further would have ensured the young dwarf’s death. If the poison had not killed him, Smaug surely would have.

“Uncle.” Kili’s whisper was hoarse, the strain of controlling stirred up memories and emotions clear. Glancing at his nephew, Thorin’s heart clenched to see the hurt reflected there, as well as the mithril sword that the prince held out to him. “I cannot keep this.”

Reaching over, Thorin curled one of the hands that held out the weapon back around its new scabbard.

“You are worthy of it, Kíli.”

The prince dropped his head, a move that had always signaled his deepest insecurities come to the fore.

“No, I- It bears a King’s Stone in the pommel.”

Taking the sword, the king turned it to closely examine the pommel, capped by a blue star sapphire, a uniquely rare and beautiful stone with an even rarer twelve point star showing in the light. Fingers quickly found the marks placed discretely to either side, the personal sigils of Durin II and his wife, Frey, who had owned the sword. Flipping the weapon deftly, he extended the hilt back toward his nephew, already certain of the answer its previous bearer would wish him to give.

“It is, but in this case, the sword was always meant for two bearers, Kíli. The two of you may be separated by time, but not by blood or spirit, which is the meaning of the rare double star in it as opposed to the single one.”  
With his other hand, the king delved into the bag he had held close to his side for the last several days, fingers closing unerringly around one of the stones within. Pulling it out, he extended it toward Kíli, who had still not taken the sword back, and opened his hand to reveal a second, identical, star sapphire. Fíli, Therin, and Dwalin, who knew the true significance of what he held, all gasped, as Kíli reached out with shaking hands to accept the offerings. Thorin swiftly stood and crossed the few feet to kneel in front of his sister-son, gently tilting Kili’s face up to look at him. He looked so very fragile, young and unsure in that moment, stress and injury taking their toll once more.

“You are a true prince of Durin, Kíli, never forget that. There is no one more worthy to bear this sword.”

The brunette could only nod mutely, tears stinging his eyes and swiftly wiped away. Thorin was certain that the other stone would find a home on the grip of Kili’s bow. Standing again, the king made his way back to his seat and pulled the bag to him. Clearing his throat, he glanced out the door to the small store they were using as a more private campsite.

“Therin, would you ask Frodo, Bofur and Nast to join us, please?”

The young dwarf nodded, but only went as far as the door to bellow for the indicated parties, leaving Dwalin laughing to himself while the princes winced or rolled their eyes. The three came quickly enough, so they could not have been far. Thorin met the gazes of the non-Khazad solemnly, then took a deep breath.

“While this is not the first time part of our rituals have been shared with outsiders, it is extremely rare. I would ask for your word that what I am about to share goes no further than your immediate families.”  
Hobbit, elf and man murmured a hasty consent while Therin stiffened, but did not object.

“When a new king of Khazad-dûm is proclaimed, they stand vigil at the shores of the Kheled-zâram. If the king should be accepted, they will surface within the pool with a small bag of stones. These are known as the King’s Stones and represent those closest and most trusted by him. None know where the stones come from, for they cannot be seen from the surface despite the clarity of the water, and occasionally are not even ones common to this part of Middle Earth. The recipient may mount the stone in whatever form they wish; in a weapon, a necklace, an adornment for the wall, anything. It is a sacred sign of the king’s trust, though, and is never given to another. In fact, it is usually either buried with the person or made a part of their tomb.” 

Thorin’s fingers closed around another stone, and he smiled, knowing without looking whose it must be.

“I have just given the first of my stones to my sister-son, Kíli, Prince of Erebor. Fittingly, then, the second shall go to my sister-son, Fíli, Prince of Erebor.”

A golden tiger’s eye gleamed on his palm, leading to a gasp from Fíli and a smirk from Kíli. The next stone, a bright piece of turquoise, was extended to Therin. Thorin reached in again, two stones coming immediately to hand. A delicate white stone, soft and pure, and a piece of hematite. Placing them on the ground before him, he had only to look to know where they belonged.

“Lis and Gimli.”

A lodestone was next, making Thorin’s lips curve up in amusement as Dwalin gave a delighted snort. It was joined by two pieces of citrine, identical and yet each unique in their own way.

“Dis, Vidri and Vili.”

His sister’s sharp tongue had certainly straightened him out more than once over the years! The red ruby that came next was gently set to one side as tears pricked more than one set of eyes.

“Balin.”

The husky voice was Dwalin’s as the large warrior reached over to pick up the stone, smiling sadly as he cupped it. He and Thorin would set it in the dwarf lord’s tomb when they had a chance, where it would catch the light reflecting down into the mountain. The next stone that came out was, naturally enough, given to his shield brother. It was an iron grey stone, but bands of red and orange shown across it, the perfect blend of Dwalin’s strength and temper.

Eyes on Bofur, Thorin brought out two more stones, extending them to the councilor. One, with a complex crystalline structure, was set to the side, but the other was cradled for a long moment, even as Dwalin had with his brother’s ruby.

It was a piece of snowflake obsidian, formed from the titanic violence of a volcano, but laced with delicate formations imbedded within, a rare beauty out of destruction. In all, Thorin could not think of a better symbolism of the dwarf it would memorialize.

“Bifur.” Bofur’s voice broke on his cousin’s name as he managed a strained smile for the king. “’Tis perfect, it even has the black and white of his hair.”

Next to appear was a fire opal, which set them all to laughing as soon as Kíli spoke the name of the dwarf they all knew it must be for.

“Glóin!”

“Undoubtedly.” Fíli added, shaking his head.

A piece of quartz, considered a healing stone by multiple cultures on Middle Earth, was clearly intended to represent Óin. Thorin would have to find an appropriate place near the western gate to mount it as a memorial, since they were highly unlikely to find a body now. The clear crystal he pulled next, however, did not seem to have an association until Thorin extended it to an astonished Nast.

“What’s supposed to be special about that?”

Therin wrinkled his nose, staring at the small stone in his friend’s hand. Nast snorted, rolling his eyes good-naturedly at the younger prince. 

“Watch.”

Fishing around in his bag, the sneaky dwarf took out a piece of parchment with writing on it and held the crystal in front of it. Thorin smiled as Therin started in shock, knowing the refraction would have created two identical lines of text when viewed through the stone. It was as deceptive in its way as Nast.

Then came another piece of obsidian, but this one was a rare brilliant green Thorin had never seen outside of Erebor. Of course, there was only one person who could possibly belong to such a rare, beautiful, and deceptively strong piece.

“Bilbo Baggins.”

Thorin whispered fondly, already planning how it could be incorporated into the small marble statue of the burglar that marked his grave on the slopes of Erebor. The old hobbit had been completely against such a thing, saying that statues and such were fine for noble men or dwarrow, but not for hobbits, until Thorin had found a rather simple method to gain his cooperation. He had told Bilbo that the carving would be done, and Bilbo could both approve and aid in the design, or it would be done in solid gold after his death!

The next stone was a blue so light that it was almost silver, and looked a disappointingly dull piece until Thorin held it up. There, it caught the flame, refracting and reflecting it with such beauty that it stole the breath.

“Frodo Baggins.”

The king handed the stone to the astonished, and flustered, hobbit, with a small seated bow and flourish of the hand. Next came a white opal, creamy and smooth, with colors swimming upon its surface in a rainbow. This was handed wordlessly to Faramir, the first man to ever receive one, as far as Thorin knew. Interesting, that he shared such a bond of friendship with the Gondorian, as they had spent but a short time together, instead keeping up a steady correspondence these last fourteen years. Perhaps it was Mahal’s way of reminding the king that he needed to foster closer ties with men as well as elves. Next came a soft green stone, the color the same as the new leaves in the spring, which was extended toward the elven prince.

“Only three other elves in all our history have borne a king’s stone, Legolas Greenleaf – Celebrimbor, Elrond, and the Lady Galadriel. May you prove yourself ever worthy of such friendship.”

Legolas smiled faintly as long, slim fingers plucked the stone from Thorin’s hand.

“We have both trod unforeseen paths since that rude meeting in the forest, Thorin Oakenshield. I have learned much of dwarrow since that time, and I thank you for the honor you do me.”

“There’s still a stone left, uncle. Whose is it?”

Therin poked at the bag and Thorin ground his teeth, hard pressed to keep from batting the impudent child’s hand away. He knew who it should be for, but there was a reluctance to pull it from its hidden resting place. Every time he had brushed against the thing as he pulled the others, there had been an odd slimy feel to it. Perhaps some mud had become caught in the bag? Steeling his nerves, the king decided to grab the makeshift bag from the outside, allowing the fabric to unroll and the stone to drop out on its own. It hit the floor in front of him with an oddly dull thud instead of the ring of rock upon rock that should have come.

As they received their first look at it, those who had been leaning forward in anticipation moments before recoiled. Thorin grimaced, scooting himself back as he regarded the thing with the same wariness he would accord a live snake. It was coal black, but not a glossy, rich color. Instead, it looked dull and greasy, unclean, with a band of fiery orange-red right down the middle that was somehow both revolting and alluring.

“Cover it!”

Thorin obeyed before he even realized who had spoken, only glancing in query at Faramir after the grey-black cloth had hidden the offending stone from sight. The Prince of Ithilien was white faced, lips pursed in a hard line and revulsion in his eyes.

“That was the Red Eye, the sign of Mordor!”

“A warning,” Dwalin’s rumble split the tense stillness, “We have a traitor, still.”

“No.” Thorin closed his eyes, fists clenched in anger as fingernails dug into his palm. “This stone was for the leader of the cult. Balin is not the only one who knew and trusted him.”

He could not believe what the depths of his soul were starting to whisper must be the truth, not until the other stood before him. He prayed that this was simply one more trick. It had to be, because the only one left not represented by a stone was-

With a hiss, the stone dissolved from under the cloth, a bright flame burning away the fabric and filling the room with a horrid stench. Thorin gasped, coughing hard as his lungs burned from the caustic smell, recoiling. As he attempted to get to his feet, a wave of dizziness sent him reeling into someone, strong hands steadying, then shoving him away.

“Get out! Everyone out! ‘Tis poison!”

Dwalin’s bark sounded in his ear as the king staggered, the other dwarf half supporting him as he fought to draw in a breath. Suddenly, cold air hit his face and the king blinked, vision clearing to show him several dwarrow staring at the staggering royals in astonishment.

“Seal it!” 

Thorin barked, waving a hand back at the shop. The draw from the chimney would hopefully keep the foul stuff from entering any other part of the camp.

“I will locate one of our healers. They have ways to clear such poisons from the air.”

Legolas, of all of them, was the only one not struggling to regain breath and equilibrium, but elves had always been affected differently from the mortal races. 

“You do that.” Dwalin snarled, eyes blazing in anger as he turned to his king. “They do not hesitate to desecrate one of our most sacred rituals! Cast them from our race, every stinking one!”

Thorin did not answer that, instead leaning wearily against the wall of the shop across from the one they had just fled as several healers came over to check on them. Other dwarrow with cloth folded over their noses and mouths were already working to seal the opening. Sad blue eyes met those of his oldest friend.

“You believe the stone to have been planted?”

He tried to mask the almost hopeful note in the question, but from Dwalin’s narrowed regard, he had not succeeded. Instead of an answer, he received a question in return.

“You don’t?”


	21. Chamber of Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which those who have fallen are honored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
> 
> Author's Note: I apologize for the wait on this one, my computer blew both the processor and the motherboard, so I had a week wait to get it fixed. Very frustrating!

21\. Chamber of Memories

Whether or not Thorin believed that the poisonous stone had been planted mattered little in the days after with the army once more moving at a rapid pace up the stairwell. Once the cavernous hall that took up much of the top floor of the city was deemed safe, all but a small contingent would use that as their main camp. That move would most likely occur tomorrow, though there was some concern about the army being cornered in such a large, open area. There were secret passages down, several of them, but they would have to be cleared, first by Kili for stability and then by warriors. 

Their enemy had been making a point of daily harassment now, most strike and run tactics, but wearying. The attacks had been mostly small skirmishes between patrols and goblins, nothing like the attack that had occurred almost two weeks ago, but none were willing to believe that the enemy was truly that weak. No, they were waiting for something. An opening, a mistake in Thorin’s leadership, sabotage, the rituals for Balin, or just until they felt ready, no one knew, and it was beginning to grate upon Thorin’s nerves. As if to remind him of what could come again, the newly formed scar tissue along his ribs began to itch, making the king squirm to relieve it as scratching through armor was awkward at best.

With the great stair secure from the gate level up, the army would begin to fan out, further exploring the levels they had not fully mapped, and venturing into the northern mines, where no maps at all had survived. The mithril forge, the public center of the city, the great weapons forges, the newer royal apartments, he would walk them all. What memories would be brought to light? Truths that had been obscured by time or simply forgotten? Was there yet mithril to mine out? Or would that spell renewed disaster for his kingdom as it had for his most recent predecessor? A shadow fell over him, breaking the king from his ruminations in time to gaze up at the tall man who bowed his head respectfully.

“We’ve secured the large hall where the Fellowship was chased, Lord Thorin. The Chamber of Records has a guard posted until your people can see to the remains within.”

Balan folded his lanky form down next to their fire as he spoke, gratefully accepting the hot mug of apple cider Faramir passed him. Thorin gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement as his eyes tracked to those of his nephews, seated near Legolas and Frodo. He could see the expectation in Therin’s eyes, knew that as his heir, the young prince should be given the responsibility of overseeing the detail, but it was Balin… 

Hopefully, the boy would understand. Which reminded Thorin that he was supposed to have talked to the lad several weeks ago. The trouble was that each time he had tried, the boy brushed him off, and truthfully, Thorin had allowed it, being awkward at the best of times with such emotions. After all, Fili and Kili had learned to deal with such things as adults without Thorin holding their hands, it was about time Therin learned as well.

“Fíli, you and Dwalin are to oversee the preparations. Make sure we have reliable sentries posted, our language and rituals are not for outside ears. Only Prince Legolas and Lord Frodo will be allowed in once we begin.”

That would definitely engender some anger among the more conservative Khazad, but Thorin viewed it as only proper. Bilbo had been a close friend to Balin for many years, corresponding with him even when they were half a world apart, and Frodo would represent his uncle with the dignity the occasion called for. As for Legolas, the declaration of him as a friend to the dwarrow meant that he was to be treated as one, which was why it was an honor so rarely bestowed upon an outsider, let alone an elf. 

Technically, as one who possessed a king’s stone, Faramir would be allowed to stay as well, but Thorin had sensed a reluctance from the prince of men that had kept him from offering. Perhaps the man did not think it his place, as he had not known any of those involved, or perhaps he felt uneasy walking where his brother had once been, who knew?

“With respect, my lord, there are some amongst my people who have asked to be allowed to pay their own respects to Lord Balin. Some, including me, had the honor of meeting him, and others are bid to do so for their sovereigns. Would it be possible to do that before you seal the chamber?”

The king frowned at Balan’s request, looking to his kin for their thoughts upon the matter, especially Dwalin. Balin had been his brother, after all. Bofur and Fíli nodded immediately, followed with a bit more hesitation by Kíli. Therin, true to his past behavior, crossed his arms with a thunderous scowl, looking offended that the ranger even had the temerity to ask. Finally, Dwalin gave a tiny nod, body relaxing ever so slightly from the alert posture he had maintained since sitting down.

“Very well.”

*****888*****

When the appointed hour came the next day, there was an almost reverential awe to the hush that fell over the assembled dwarrow as they stepped into the ruins of the Chamber of Mazarbul, an honor guard of dwarrow from all seven kingdoms, men, elves, and one hobbit leading the way. As Thorin and his three nephews approached with Dwalin, the guard parted to take positions as a living wall, blocking sight of all but the tomb that their living corridor led to. The marble was cracked, with part of the lid displaced, much like the tombs of he, Fíli, and Kíli, under the mountain far to the north. Unfortunately, this one would not be unoccupied. 

At the knowledge that he would have no choice but to see the desecrated remains of his old friend and advisor, Thorin stopped, unable to force his feet to take another step. He had known that Balin was dead since just after awakening in this time, but to be here, to see his corpse... It brought a reality to the words that soured his stomach and made him wish for the privacy to cry out his grief as he had at the sight of his grandfather's severed head and Frerin's mangled, unrecognizable remains.  
A heavy hand fell upon his shoulder and he glanced to the side to see Dwalin, friend, shield brother, silent guardian, with all the torment of Thorin's soul in his eyes. If anyone could understand the emotions threatening to bury the king under their heavy load right now, it was this warrior, who had been at his side for so many dark days. Smaug. Azanulbizar. The trek through the wilderness. The Quest. The fall to the gold sickness...

The warrior's dark gaze met his own, a gentle squeeze to his shoulder urging the king on, telling him he could do this with Dwalin at his side. Together, they crossed the final steps and stood silent, sharing memories of the one who had been older brother and occasional parent to them both without words having to be spoken. The warrior grasped the broken bottom to the stone lid, muscles bulging as he lifted the heavy and awkward item back into place with a grunt, covering the skeletal feet and rotting robes. 

Next to him, Thorin tossed aside the remains of an orc, then paused, eyes locked on the remains of the young dwarf who had seemed a mouse but turned into a fierce fighter on the quest back to Erebor, at a loss. He did not wish to leave Ori here, exposed, but he had been so focused upon Balin that he had neglected to bring proper cloths to cover the body.

"Here, Lord Durin."

The quiet address made the king twist around to find Legolas, every inch the ancient elven prince today, with several folded lengths of cloth in hand. As the tall archer began to unfold his burden, Kili, Frodo and Nast moved to take the other corners, the red and black silk billowing out with a snap to display the arms of Khazad-dûm as it settled over Ori.

"How..."

Thorin was barely able to get the words out as his own kin stepped close, tears running freely down Kili's cheeks as the skeleton was hidden.

"Arwen."

At the utterance of her name, there was a ripple of gasps from men and elves alike, for they all honored the Lady Evenstar, now Queen of Gondor.

"She and Lord Aragorn wished to send something to show Gondor's respects, as well as honor the alliances of old. Our lady-queen embroidered it herself."

Thorin gave the man who had spoken, Faramir, a solemn nod before turning to Nast. As the closest kin to Ori present, by pledge if not by blood, it was up to him to respond.

"I thank you for the honor you do my uncle. My father will no doubt express his own gratitude when he arrives to take Ori home."

Thorin closed his eyes, head bowing for a moment in sorrow, for that was not a journey Nori should have made alone. Dori had slipped into death in his sleep last winter, as dignified in this, his last act, as he had been in everything else in life. The old dwarf had lived past anyone's expectations, fussily aiding his princes by overseeing protocol and the preparations for the royal weddings before quietly fading back into the background and overseeing the training of Nori’s younger son, Ori II, as a protocol master in addition to his work as archivist. None could dispute Dori's mastery of such things, no matter how irritated some of the stuffier nobles became when their seats were moved with the new rule. 

A movement sending a soft breeze against his face alerted the king to someone standing before him. Opening his eyes, he found Legolas there once again, head bowed as he offered a second, visibly older, bundle of silken cloth to the king. As Thorin reached up to accept it, rough hands caught on the fine weave, almost dropping it as his senses informed him that the barely visible darker stain was long dried blood. Dark blue eyes sought out the elven prince's lighter ones in search of an explanation.

"It was sent by the Lord Celeborn, the battle banner of Durin IV. He said that you would know why it was returned now, as another new age is yet in its infancy."

_Third Age, 1_

_"Lord Durin! I believe that this is yours."_

_One hand reached out to gently run his fingers over the fabric, halting at the edge of the blood that still stained the deep red banner of Khazad-dûm. His other arm, encased in a sling and bandages, twitched, fingers that were no longer there feeling as if they wanted to move, though he knew that to be impossible. With a scowl, the dwarf lord jerked his hand away, glaring up at the tall, white-haired elf who had hailed him. Celeborn was still wearing that odd, flexible armor so popular among the elves, though to Durin IV's eyes, it looked too fragile to protect much. It also made the elf look a bit like an overgrown decoration._

_The king could not help the flash of resentment toward the other. Even these few minutes of speech was yet more time away from his people, away from the rebuilding of his kingdom in this new, hard-won peace. The darkness had been at last vanquished from Mordor, the need for war done. He wanted to be surrounded by the hot, glowing metal of the forge, to swallow a tankard of malt beer, the foam sticking to his beard, to rip meat from the bone and laugh at the antics of his little grandson... To forget, for at least a moment, the carnage of the battle plain and the sheer terror of seeing that black armored foe, towering over all who attempted to oppose him. The king could not blame those who had broken and run in the face of such a thing, for no being of Yavanna, Illuvatar, or Mahal was made to face such evil._

_Reluctantly, the king stopped, turning to face the other as a sore hand accepted the soft cloth, cuts adding a few more smears of blood to the already marked banner. Battle over, the wounded had not cared if their temporary bandage had been the banner of the dwarf king, only that it held their insides in place until they could be brought to a healer. That the sufferer had been the elven prince, now king, Amroth, Durin had not even noted until the other was being lifted onto a stretcher._

_Amroth had taken the wound preventing a killing blow to Durin's back, not a typical behavior of an elf who was not of Gil-Galad's people, to save a dwarf. Though Durin had returned the favor several times, defending the downed elven lord until he had lost his own hand just before help reached them. One of the dwarf's fingers folded over to run gently along the edge of the largest stain before he shoved it back at the other, voice straining to croak out a reply._

_"Bid your king to keep it, remind him that dwarrow are not all the same." He cocked his head up at the taller being, then added, "Return it to the last Durin King, when the time comes to honor one who is worthy."_

_Celeborn did not seem at all phased by such an odd direction, a fact Durin was grateful for as he had no idea why he had even given it, just that it was correct. Instead, the elf neatly bundled the cloth, but did not turn away immediately, as he had done every other time he had been forced to interact with the dwarrow king._

_"Are you wounded further, or is your gravelly voice due to the strain of battle?"_

_The dwarf's eyes narrowed, but there was none of the haughnty disregard he was used to from this elf. Curious now, he chose to give an answer._

_"Battle."_

_Celeborn nodded, as if he had already known as much, and pressed a small bag into the king's hand._

_"Add this to your tea, thrice daily until your voice is normal for two days running."_

_"Thank you."_

_Durin surprised even himself with the amount of true sincerity in that answer, for the two had never enjoyed the easy relations that he had with Elrond, or even Galadriel. With a bow that sent his aching muscles to throbbing once more, the king took his leave. Just far enough away for propriety awaited Sköd, head and one leg wrapped in rough bandages, but otherwise whole. They had won at last, now came the task of rebuilding within this new age, opened in blood, but promising peace._

Thorin opened his eyes, smiling faintly as he unfolded it to the audible gasps of several of those assembled. Dwalin took one corner, while the others were picked up by Fili, Kili, and Bofur, the four moving past the king to place it over the broken tomb. The silk billowed in the sunlight coming in from far above, casting a red tint to the stone as it settled in perfect position.

It was time.

At a nod, the non-Khazad took this moment to step forward, offering soft words of praise and honor for the dwarrow of the colony and their leader before quietly filing from the room. Soon, only Legolas and Frodo were left, standing respectfully to the side, and the chanting began. Deep voice rising in the ancient rites of his people, Thorin allowed himself to be carried by the song, a silent good-bye to his old friend as memories played out in his mind, the sharp pounding of hammer on anvil beating out a counter measure to every word. Grief finally given leave to surface, tears dripped down his face unheeded as he mourned the one who most deserved to live to see this realm renewed.


	22. Tempers and Temptations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which tempers flare, and someone does something stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

22\. Tempers and Temptations

Sighing wearily, Kíli braced himself against the cold stone wall as his mind sought to feel the conditions ahead once again. With the traps left by the cult and the instabilities of the ancient city, this had proven necessary with every new section the patrols had cleared. The entire eastern upper seven levels were now theirs, and they worked next toward clearing the northeastern city and mithril mines, as they knew that the southern mines were honeycombed with unmapped goblin and troll tunnels.  
He gasped, mind jolting from other thoughts as his skin crawled as if marched over by dozens of ants. Even as he shuddered in revulsion, he identified the sensation as the scrape of goblin feet on stone. Blindly, one hand reached out to latch onto Kifir’s shoulder, the physical contact drawing the prince from the rock just enough to speak.

“Third cross-corridor on the left. Ambush waiting.”

It was a common pattern for the cult, placing small teams to attack their patrols as they walked through the city. Satisfied that they now were aware of that danger, Kíli turned his attention back to the stone, a new sensation grabbing him. Now it felt as though a knife poked into his foot, poised on the cusp of breaking skin, and the instinctive need to jerk away momentarily broke the connection with the stone.

“The first bridge has been weakened to the point of falling with any weight upon it.” Turning his mind once more to the stone, he winced as something else made itself known with a throb in his temple. “And the ceiling has several water cracks in it. Natural. Watch for it.” 

Next came the feeling he had grown to hate the last few days, both because of what it meant and the discomfort it gave him. Fíli had asked about it the day before, saying his brother made an awful face every time, but the brunette had struggled to explain. Finally, he had settled on saying that it felt like the moment where the need to vomit overwhelmed the body, but nothing came up, leaving the suffer to curl around the agony and endure.

“Deadfall trap, left junction beyond the bridge, two paces in, and another seven paces beyond that.”

At least he could warn them of such things. Trip wires and crossbows left no trace in the stone for him to read. The prince was about to pull out, giving the waiting team the go ahead to proceed, when agony blazed down every nerve, setting his body on fire. He was barely conscious of his scream, or the hands that grabbed at his falling form. Fire! His skin crackled and split, the stench filling his nostrils, the roar filling his ears and drowning out the voice calling frantically. 

“Kíli!”

Desperately, his mind latched onto those two syllables like a lifeline, pulling him away from the maelstrom within. The voice repeated, sounds meshing together as he pushed; out; away. Gasping, he felt the fire ease as he returned to himself, fighting to separate what was ‘Kíli’. Living, that was him, breathing, in and out, the cool air washing away the stench he had only imagined, the agony flowing away as if it had never been. Gasping, he managed to open watery eyes to find himself propped against his older brother, both hands, mercifully whole and healthy, clutching the Arkenstone. Frantic brown eyes sought out Durin blue, finding Thorin hovering close.

“The last team we sent! Fire! The cult coated the stone with oil and set it ablaze!” 

His throat was surprisingly raw, voice hoarse. Had he been screaming? As his uncle turned away to bark orders, sending about half their small group running, he forced his wrung out body to straighten, sitting up and away from Fíli’s support.

“I’m alright now.”

“Uh huh.”

Fíli regarded him with definite skepticism as he uttered the dry sounds, pushing a water skin at him before standing. The brunette gratefully gulped several mouthfuls and then allowed his brother to pull him to his feet. 

“We return to camp.”

Thorin ordered, raising a chiding eyebrow when Kíli grimaced at the order. He hated quitting early, even when it was the most logical choice. If the cult was resorting to fire, they were becoming desperate, the most dangerous kind of enemy. No doubt Thorin would be gathering his advisors back at camp to reassess the situation and their tactics, leading to another round of debate and shouting. That was the way of dwarrow politics, one of the many reasons that Kíli despised such things. At least he could most likely get away with pleading exhaustion and find a place well out of earshot!

Even as he distracted himself with that plan, the prince winced as his foot caught on an uneven stone in the floor, threatening to send him sprawling had it not been for Fíli’s quick reflexes and the extra support of his cane. He dearly wanted to pull his arm from the other’s hold, but tolerated it for the moment. Kíli could not say that he was all that surprised by his older brother's constant presence at his side as they began to make their slow, cautious way back to the camp. It had become a fact of life for him so long as they were here. This did not mean, however, that said attentions were welcome; indeed, the irritation built with every step treading upon his shadow and inhalation as if the other meant to speak, then censured himself. Even Thorin, walking just behind the younger dwarrow accepting murmured verbal reports from various patrol leaders grated upon already raw nerves.

The king, by protocol, should be preceded only by his guards, not by the princes, no matter that they actually had thrones to sit on and he did not. Kíli knew his uncle had never been one to insist upon such things, both because of the exigencies of exile and as a visible break with the ultra-conservative rule of Thrór and Dain, but many within their army were not of the Longbeards. Now was not the time to appear as the new, softer Thorin who had come with their return to life, but instead to show the occasionally harsh, coldly majestic leader who had defied any to take away his birthright, no matter the mistakes of his predecessors. 

No one was so foolish as to believe that all the various kingdoms had offered warriors from the goodness of their hearts. No, at least some had come to assess this newly risen king, to assess his strengths and weaknesses, to watch for openings where an advantage might be found. Especially given Thorin’s history. Even as the young, impulsive, self-absorbed would-be warrior in Ered Luin, Kíli had heard the whispers. That the elder line of Durin had grown weak, prone to madness and gold sickness, no longer fit to rule. That they should be supplanted for the good of all dwarrow. Even after all that had happened with the retaking of Gundabad and the Iron Hills, and fourteen prosperous years for Dale and Erebor alike, there were still rumors!

"Kíli!"

A voice hissed in his ear as a hand jiggled his elbow, making the brunette startle. When had they reached the smaller guardroom near the Chamber of Mazarbul that had been set aside for the royals? And how long had he been standing there, lost in his own ruminations? Too long, by the frown on his brother's face.

Fíli sank down with him, hand still on his elbow, as he took a seat on one of the small folding camp stools packed for those of higher stations or creakier bones. That Kíli, at not even one hundred, was afflicted with both those conditions did nothing to lighten his mood.

The flash of something coming toward his face seen only out of the corner of his eye made the prince jerk away, an instinctive protective reaction that soon turned to an exasperated one as he identified the offending object as Fíli’s hand attempting to check his forehead.

"Stop that. I don't need big brother watching over my shoulder, Fíli!"

As soon as he snapped the words, he flushed, mad at himself for giving in to his own moodiness, but that regret abruptly disappeared at Fíli’s own angrily spit out reply.

"Well, excuse me for being concerned about my little brother! Since this one obviously doesn’t need me, maybe I should go find the other one!"

Both dwarrow froze at that, Fíli’s face tinging pink in horrified embarrassment at what he had just said. Kíli sighed heavily, closing his eyes and counting slowly to ten before meeting guilty blue eyes.

"Kíli, I - I didn't mean-"

"I know you didn't, but I'm not a child, Fíli!"

"You are certainly acting like one!"

Kíli sucked in a noisy breath, rage and shock rising as he gazed up at the dwarf who had just spit out that irritated rejoinder as Fíli groaned. Thorin simply stared back, hands on hips and blue eyes cold, Therin one step behind him, tears of shock glittering in his eyes. The lad must have overheard Fíli’s words as they approached. Just now, however, he was too angry at Thorin to concern himself with his sibling, trying to stand and confront him only for his legs to collapse back down.

"Excuse me? Just what in Mahal's name does that mean?"

A weight settled on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off, not about to be placated by big brother this time. Was everyone out to attack and belittle him today? Above him, the king snapped a warning glare at the blonde with the clear message to stay out of this, though Fíli rarely heeded such things where his brother was concerned, even as a child.

"You push too hard, reckless, irresponsibly risking yourself, refusing the very legitimate concerns of your family! Do you even give thought to the responsibilities you have back at Erebor? Have you learned nothing these past years, to be acting the foolish boy?"

Kíli gaped, blood rising to further heat a face already flushed with fever even as he surged to his feet.

"Do not speak to me of growing up and responsibility, Thorin! I think of nothing else! I have a responsibility to our people that cannot be denied, no matter the price I must pay!" Thorin's mouth opened, no doubt to snarl a retort, but a slash of the prince's hand through the air cut his uncle off. "No! It was not I who was so blinded by greed and ambition that all reasonable words were dismissed, almost bringing war and destruction upon our people on the eve of triumph! I did not insist upon setting out against a dragon with only thirteen, betting upon a fool's hope! You did not-"

"Kíli! Stop this!"

A blur of blonde hair and Fíli was between them, physically restraining his brother, who had not even realized he had been advancing upon his king. The brunette briefly struggled, but he already knew that there was no way he would escape Fíli’s grasp. Kíli growled in anger, fist clenching as for a split second he considered swinging at the other before his mind caught up, informing him he was contemplating his own kin as if he were nothing more than an obstacle to be removed. 

Choking on the horror of what he had almost done, the younger prince turned on his heel and walked off as quickly as trembling legs would allow, heading toward one of the lesser used corridors. Behind him, he could hear a heated debate, but did not stop. Right now, all he could think of was to be alone. He craved solitude with the cold, unfeeling stone his only companion, strong, hard rock... It would have no arguments for him, nor nightmares and conflicting demands that tore him apart; the stone simply was.

"Kíli! Do not walk away-"

"Let him go, Thorin, please! You will only tear each other further apart right now."

There was a pleading note in Fíli’s voice that would normally have him halfway back, but this time, he could not bring himself to heed it.

"He cannot go alone, the fool! Where is Kifir?"

"With his father. I'll go, uncle."

Kíli cursed to himself as he heard Therin volunteer, pushing to go just a bit faster and hopefully lose the boy.

"I don't know if that's a good id-"

"Therin!" 

Thorin's bellow overrode whatever objection Fíli had been about to offer, and Kíli wished that they would stop arguing about him as if he could not hear. Surely they knew how much sound carried in these stone halls!

"Kíli! Wait!"

The hard thud of metal soled boots upon stone told him that there was no way to evade the younger prince, no matter how much he wanted to. Realistically, he could understand his uncle's concern, especially after the attack upon the main camp several weeks ago. Therin's face was red, breath huffing and puffing as he slowed his pace to match his brother's, though he did not say anything more. As they reached the edge of the well-travelled area, the younger dwarf grabbed a torch to light their steps in the darkness. 

“This way.”

Kili paused, frowning as he regarded the corridor that branched off the main one. They had not sent patrols into this section yet, intending to do so today until the disaster struck. He knew vaguely where it went, having spent so much time pouring over the old maps, but it was well beyond the camp’s safe perimeter.

“We shouldn’t go so far from our patrol lines, Therin.”

“Why not? You would know if trouble were coming and we’re not really all that far. Do you really want a group of strangers walking along to hear us?”

No, he did not, but he really wanted to be alone. Or as alone as he could get with a little brother who had suddenly decided to stick to him like a burr. The older prince huffed, one hand lightly brushing the wall to gain a sense of nothing but emptiness ahead. He did not bother delving deeper to check for traps, knowing even a finger touch as he now had would be enough to warn him before a wrong step.

“Fine. But stay walking in my steps.”

They walked in silence for several minutes, only the hiss of the torch and their footfalls providing any sound.

"Kíli..."

His brother's voice trailed off hesitantly and the other brunette sighed, strong emotion giving way to an emptiness and exhaustion that was becoming too familiar a state lately.

"He did not mean it, Therin. Fíli was angry with me and spoke the first thing that came to mind that would hurt."

Fingers ran along the wall, feet placed with little thought as the stone told him where was safe. It would be so much easier, to be as rock, unmoving, uncaring no matter the circumstances, a silent watcher. To stay as stone...

A muffled grumble pulled him abruptly out to gaze around at torchlight reflected off unfamiliar walls. How long had he been lost within his connection to the rock?

"What did you say?"

The prince asked his younger companion, who had stopped several feet behind, blue eyes glittering icily.

"You could not even be bothered to listen to me, could you? The replacement - discard if not needed!"

Kíli cringed, hearing some of his own words of the past being thrown at him and knowing that Therin had overheard more than Fíli and he had ever suspected. When he had first learned that his mother had two more children, that was exactly how he had felt, too, he just had not been as vocal about it as Fíli for once. At this moment, though, he did not have the patience to deal with a pouting dwarfling.

"I never asked for company, Therin, so do not yell at me for not bothering to listen to someone I didn't want along in the first place!" His sharp rebuke made his brother's scowl deepen as Kíli looked sharply around, the back of his neck tingling in a way it had not since Mirkwood. "We've come too far past our sentries. We need to return. Now."

If he had hoped the serious tone would cut through Therin's preoccupation with his own hurt feelings, it was in vain. The other prince sneered, holding the torch a bit higher as Kíli put a hand to the wall to steady himself, body warning that he was upon the edge of total exhaustion. Faintly, he heard the gutturals of the Black Speech and shook his head, cursing the memory traces caught within the stone around him.

"What's wrong, Kíli? The famous archer not brave enough to face an empty corridor without big brother?"

"That's not bravery, Therin, its stupidity! This isn't the lower halls of Erebor or the safe trails of the Shire! You saw the dead and wounded after we were attacked in our very camp!" 

The fear that the prince felt, both for the situation they were in and the whisper that his younger brother could be right, made the words come out harsher than he had intended. Closing his eyes in frustration, Kíli made himself take a deep breath before opening his eyes again. For one moment, he thought that he had been struck blind, the inky darkness was so thick around him.

“Therin?!”

Had something somehow taken the younger dwarf in those precious few seconds that he had stolen for himself? Was a selfish action of his condemning his family to heartache yet ag- His dark thoughts broke off as a laugh came from somewhere in the darkness.

“What’s the matter? Scared, brother?” The tone became low, with a nasty edge to it. “Who’s the coward now? Have fun finding your way back-“

There was a flare of warning, a feel of pressure causing something to move that should not, which might have been all that saved their lives.

“Therin, run!”

The grate of the crude trigger stone against its setting raced down nerves already made raw by sheer emotion, then his senses were completely overwhelmed by the cascade of rock from the deadfall.

Silence, except for the harsh inhalations and resulting coughs from each dust laden breath. The grit ground between his teeth, making the prince gag and spit, breaking any attempt at concentration to discover if there was a body beneath the pile he knew now blocked the corridor back to camp. The mere thought of kin lying there was enough to make his stomach cramp and roll, but it was another sound that made the brunette freeze.

“What have we here, boys? A dwarf alone!”

The gleefully malicious words came from right behind him. Kili’s palm was slick with sweat as he grabbed the hilt of his sword and put his back to the rock fall, determined to take as many of his foes with him as he possibly could.


	23. Missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the others race to Kili's aid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

23\. Missing

"Uncle!"

Thorin spun at the desperate cry to find Therin running toward him, face red and clothes covered in rock dust.

"Therin! What-?"

"Where's Kíli?!"

His and Fíli’s questions overrode one another as the panting young dwarf waved a hand back the way he had come, almost toppling himself as he fought to regain enough breath to speak.

"A-a rockslide! I- I could hear fighting from the other side. Kíli-"

Thorin cursed as the boy broke off, barking orders even as he longed to take off at a run himself.

"Dwalin, I need our strongest dwarrow with tools and weapons. Frodo, examine the maps, see if there is another way around to that corridor. Bofur, you're with us, we may need your mining expertise. Kifir, find me a healer to come with us. Nast, extra patrols, I want every available dwarrow out, cut them off at the lower levels if you can. If that bunch realizes who Kíli is..."

Suddenly running out of orders to give, Thorin gripped Fíli’s shoulder in reassurance. The blonde was shaking under his hand, face pale and clammy as the reality of what could happen set in. There was no need to tell the prince the sort of sport a group of goblins and orcs might have with a lone dwarf, let alone the cult. Frérin had been identified by his armor alone. The mere thought of finding Kíli like that twisted his stomach and heightened his impatience.

Frodo came running back, a rolled parchment in hand as he swiftly dodged bodies hustling in every direction. Next to them, Therin hastily put aside the water skin he had been gulping from as the hobbit spread the map.

"We were here." Therin tapped a corridor that had been little used by the company in the day they had been on this upper level. "I- We argued and when I turned to leave, I must have stepped on a trap stone. Kíli yelled at me to run just as it started to sink under my foot, so I leaped, and then the stones were falling everywhere. I tried to call to him, but I heard an orc or something speak and ran to get you."

Thorin could hear the guilt, the doubt in his youngest nephew's words, gripping the boy's neck reassuringly.

"You did well, Therin. Stay here and rest, help Frodo with the map." 

One large hand on his shoulder alerted the king to his best friend’s return, making Thorin turn to see the small crowd of dwarrow, plus a few elves and men hastily adjusting armor and readying weapons. The amount of volunteers was a silent testimony to how well regarded the prince was by most in the camp. It was not only Erebor dwarrow who were here, either, as a Blacklock and a Stonefoot both hastened over to join them. Thorin gave them a nod before raising his voice to be heard above the shifting of metal and the stomp of boots. 

"Go!"

The king's heart sank as he came upon the area only minutes later. When dwarrow made fall traps, they were most often loaded with slabs of stone shaped like the top of a table. These did more damage while tending not to break into pieces, ensuring only the target was hit and making it easier to clean up. Someone had found or reset this one with stones ranging from large boulders to small debris. Had Kíli not warned Therin, had the younger prince not felt the release of the trigger stone, this would have looked like part of the ceiling and wall naturally gave way. That meant it would take much longer to clear a path to where the prince had last been seen.

Fortunately for the nerves of both Fíli and Thorin, Bofur immediately took charge with the cheerful calm he always showed.

"Right, then. Team one, right side, team two, left. Three and four take what's passed to you and get it out of the way. Watch stability, we don't need anyone buried. Everyone else, stay back and out of the way."

The last sentence was directed mostly at Thorin and Fíli, bringing an instant reaction from the younger dwarf.

"No! I have to-"

Just as impatient, the king still had the presence of mind to restrain his nephew as Fili made a move to try joining those at work. Bofur, however, already had them moving rock at an astonishing rate, taking full advantage of the greater strength of dwarrow and the height of the elves. Occasionally, work would pause while someone called out to the missing prince, but though all strained to hear the slightest cry through the stone, none came.

Time seemed to stretch into days for Thorin as he stood there, palms sweating as dire nightmares flashed before his eyes. He began to mutter to himself, low Khuzdul words; first a prayer to Mahal, then 'he's fine, he's safe, he's fine...' over and over.

He could not, would not, allow himself to slide into the despair that clawed closer with every moment, every unanswered call. The image of the crumpled form, covered in blood, eyes staring unseeing at the sky, would not go away. From the low moans that accompanied each pause, he knew that Fíli was suffering the same. He would not lose his nephew in that way again!

A final stone block was pulled out and Bofur was instantly up the pile, boosting his son through the newly created hole. Under his hand, Thorin could feel Fíli tense, his body shaking from the force of suppressed emotion, which gave way to another low, soul-wrenching moan as Kifir's head reappeared with a shake.

"The prince isn't here, just a lot of dead orcs and a strange dwarf."

"Alright, lad." Bofur's voice was soothing. "We'll find him, don't you worry. Come on back so we can finish removing the boulders and see what signs were left."

"I didn't walk on anything except boulders, Da, Kíli taught me better than that!"

One hand thrust the lamp through, and then Kifir wormed his way back to his father. Instantly, the teams went back to work with renewed urgency. Kíli was either a captive or on the run somewhere, alone. If he were dead, the body surely would have been left to taunt them, rubbing salt in a fresh wound.

"There must be another way through. That corridor can't just dead end."

Desperate blue eyes found his own as Fíli twisted out of his hold to face his uncle. Thorin's fists clenched, worry grating upon his nerves, making his temper short.

"No, it does not, but I cannot recall-"

It was Thorin who let out a growl of frustration this time, one hand slamming into the wall. The simple reality was that Khazad-dûm was too large for any to know the entire layout in their head, even the kings who ruled it. Even worse, as levels were added and populations shifted, so did some of the interior structure of the city. New halls were added, rooms changed, even entire levels repurposed, the ingenuity of the dwarrow finding ways without compromising internal support structures. Ironically, the greatest, most celebrated skill of their race had now become a liability.

A billow of dust into the air drew Thorin’s attention as the pile settled, now easily scalable. Bofur had waved his teams back, allowing Thorin, Dwalin, and Fíli through to find Frodo, Therin and a small patrol just arriving from the other direction.

"We have clear sign of orcs headed the other direction. Several of them were bleeding and didn't bother binding wounds."

The patrol leader from earlier in the day, a Blacklock named Einarr, immediately reported as torches lit up the site of a battle.

"You're certain it was all black blood?"

The king questioned sharply, relieved when the other dwarf nodded firmly.

"Quite certain, sire. Stuff has a very distinctive scent when it’s still wet."

"Laddie didn't go down easy."

Dwalin noted proudly, carefully rolling one of the eleven bodies, ten orcs and a dwarf. The orc was sliced diagonally across the torso, its entire left arm and shoulder missing.

"This here looks like it’s all his."

There was a slight tremor to Fíli’s voice as he knelt by the dead cult member, but he was doing a remarkable job of keeping the panic at bay. Thorin just was not sure how long he could continue. Einarr walked over to the golden haired prince, rolling the body over before snorting in bitter satisfaction.

“Well, I can at least report one more we need not worry about. That is Hyrûn. He was sought under a death sentence after the war for siding with Mordor, but had disappeared.” 

Dwalin made a grumbling noise low in his throat at the Blacklock’s words, glaring at the other dwarf. 

“And why not just kill him during the war if you caught him with the enemy? Or were you willing to help Mordor, as we heard?”

A piece of rock hit the far wall with explosive force, dissolving into fragments that sent multiple dwarrow ducking as Einarr rounded on Dwalin, getting right into the Warmaster’s face.

“Well, excuse me, warmaster, for not having a cozy mountain to hide in and a thousand leagues between our foes and our homes! Unlike you, we had orcs, goblins, trolls, men, all of Sauron’s creatures upon our doorsteps constantly! Did we sell weapons to Mordor and Isengard? Yes! At the point of a sword! When you are told to either sell or see your home burned and your family taken away as slaves, there really isn’t much of a choice, now is there?”

“Stop it!” Fíli was between the other two dwarrow before Thorin could move to block him, eyes wild and desperate. “Just stop it! If you wish to kill one another, do so after my brother is safe!”

“Thorin!”

Bofur’s summons cut short any words the two might have said to the prince, the councilor holding his torch up to illuminate another orc.

“Looks like our prince was intent upon making orc-ka-bobs!”

The king ignored the flippancy, walking over to grasp the hilt of Kili’s mithril sword and wrench it from where it had stabbed straight through one orc to lodge in the breastbone of a second. Such a stabbing was a maneuver of last resort, as the blade was much more likely to be caught by bone and ripped from the hand, leaving the warrior defenseless. 

Einarr knelt swiftly, picking up a broadnecked flask and allowing a drop of the remaining liquid to bead on his finger. He smelled it, making a face of disgust as he quickly washed the stuff off with about half his water skin. He met the king’s eyes squarely. 

“Milkweed sap. It’s a common trick in the south. The sap is highly toxic, just a bit splashed in the eyes can blind someone for days.”

“This finished the fight.”

Dwalin had stalked away from the others, passing his king a rock a bit larger than his fist that had been resting against the wall as if thrown. Thorin’s stomach knotted as he noted the red blood that covered one side, a few strands of dark hair still stuck to it.

“We can do nothing more here. He is gone.”

From behind the king arose a strangled keening cry so full of pain, fury, and fear that Thorin’s hair bristled up on the back of his neck, leaving him quaking as he spun toward the source. The closest he could think of was the cry of the banshee spirit that the Broadbeams believed haunted part of the ruins of Belegost.

“Fíli!”

Thorin lunged toward his nephew, but he was too far away to stop the bolting figure. Fortunately, someone else was closer, perhaps having anticipated this very reaction. Wyvern, the healer from Minas Arnor, grabbed the shorter dwarf as the prince attempted to dodge past him and into the darkness, holding on grimly. For his part, it looked to Thorin like Fíli used every dirty fighting move he or Dwalin had ever taught him, and some they had not, to try breaking the hold. 

Head butting, bringing hands up to gouge at the man’s eyes, biting, stomping on the healer’s feet, even trying to roll him though the man was twice his height and weight, none of it worked. Wyvern hung on, blood dripping to the floor from a bite mark on one hand, using his greater body mass to allow the dwarf to exhaust himself. Finally, as those in attendance could only watch the heart-breaking scene, the prince sank to the floor, sobbing bitterly as Wyvern continued to cradle him. Unable to stay still a moment longer, Thorin hit his knees in front of the duo on the floor, callused hands capturing his nephew’s head to force him to face the king.

“Hear me, Fíli. We will find him. I pledge to you I will not stop until we do. Not this time.”

There was a spark of anger in the lighter blue eyes that met his own as the face twisted into a bitter parody of the nephew Thorin knew.

“D-do not promise what we both know you cannot do, uncle! The kingdom will come first, just as in Laketown! Besides, if they have k-kill-“

The prince’s breathing stuttered and caught on the word, chest heaving in an attempt to force air past an emotionally closed throat. Fíli’s eyes widened, losing focus, and Thorin cursed, recognizing the tell-tale signs of an incipient panic attack. Wyvern, being healer trained, would have better knowledge of how to stop it, so the king reached out for the younger dwarf, willingly accepting the weight as the man began to dig in his bag.

“I need a clean cloth!”

“Here.”

Frodo instantly volunteered, holding out a handkerchief. At Thorin’s raised eyebrow, the hobbit shrugged. 

“Bilbo told me to always carry at least two in my pocket.”

Wyvern took the cloth, soaking it in a faintly green liquid from his water skin. This, he pressed gently over Fili’s nose and mouth, the dwarf breathing so rapidly he must have been on the edge of passing out. The prince instinctively reached up to dislodge it, but Dwalin was quick to capture one arm while Thorin grabbed for the other with the hand not supporting his nephew. Fíli, however, seemed to have given up on pulling at the healer’s arm and was searching for something to grab, instead.

“No!” The healer barked as the king was about to place his hand in Fíli’s scrambling one. “He’ll break your bones, give him a rock to squeeze.”

Thorin grunted, one hand still supporting the reeling prince while the other searched blindly for a suitable one. His hand closed upon one a bit larger than two fists, slapping it into Fíli’s palm and only noting how familiar it looked afterwards. The results were instantaneous. Colors burst forth, filling the corridor with light that pulsed a steady beat as Fíli clutched the Arkenstone to him, breathing perceptively slowing at last. Another minute and he pushed Wyvern’s arm firmly away, sitting up from his uncle’s support and staring at the stone in shock.

“H-he’s alive! He has to be!” Eyes slightly unfocused, he glanced at the healer with a frown. “What did you give me?”

Wyvern smiled, handing the prince the water skin.

“An herbal mixture that calms you. It’s meant to be sipped as a tea to keep you steady. Breathing it in like I had you doing makes it work faster, but the effects are also stronger. Don’t try standing for a few minutes, alright?”

“And you just had it with you?”

Fíli seemed fixed on the irrelevant point, while Thorin was more interested in the stone his nephew now held. Wyvern huffed a weak laugh.

“I witnessed your reaction to Kili being in danger before, remember? And that was only a fever, so I came prepared. Drink two mouthfuls of that every half an hour. It won’t make you woozy or force you to sleep, but it will help keep your emotions under control.”

Fili’s bark of laughter was bitter.

“I hope you have a lot of it, then.”

It was the closest any of them would come to admitting the truth – that the search for a single dwarf in the vast city full of damaged stone, enemies, and traps just might prove impossible.


	24. A Darkness So Vast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kili meets the leader of the Death Warriors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains some mild torturous actions.

24\. A Darkness so Vast

Kíli lay in the darkness, trying to decide if it might have been better had the orcs and goblins killed him outright. He wanted to cry out, call for help, but knew it was futile as he swallowed hard, tears pricking unseeing eyes and stomach acid burning his throat. How long would he wait in the stillness before the dripping of water onto his face was replaced by the scurry of rat claws or the coarse scales of a viper? How long before his end came, here, alone in the darkness? He could do nothing but wait, playing the events of his capture over and over again in his mind, more terrified than he ever remembered being in his life.

When he had woken from the blow to the head that had abruptly ended the fight, it had been to burning eyes unable to see and filthy, grasping hands that held his body firmer then iron bands. His hands were brutally twisted behind him and tied there, more leather going around his elbows to force them together, multiplying the pain. Whatever one of his attackers had splashed into his face during the short fight, it had done its job, darkness now his world. 

The prince had actually been holding his own in the fight, having taken down about half his attackers, when the strange dwarf had deliberately allowed himself to be wounded in order to get close enough to splash the liquid into his face. There had been a burst of pain, but somehow Kíli had kept his feet, stabbing blindly at his opponents. His satisfaction at hearing a grunt of pain other than his own was short-lived, however, as his opponent pulled the blade from his hand and another slammed the stone into his head. 

How long ago that had been, he had no idea, so there was no way to know if anyone had come to his aid and attempted to follow them. He had tried to keep his body limp, force them to carry him and slow them further, but his captors had jeered, yanking him about and allowing his body to drag over painful stone until he stumbled to his own feet to stop the agony. Of course, that had not slowed them down at all.

They seemed to walk for quite some time, the prince being dragged along on fumbling feet, when the echo of the stone told him he had entered a large room, the rustle of bodies surrounding the little group on all sides. He had steeled himself, expecting threats of torture as he was forced onto his knees, but someone had just laughed, yanking his head back by the hair.

“What have we here? A little lost lamb? It certainly cannot be a son of Durin!”

The voice was not that of a goblin or orc, not with the hint of a Khuzdul accent. Though he could not see his tormentor, the prince had the mind to gather spit in his mouth, blowing it out with as much force as possible. The other cackled harder, hand twisting in his hair until the prince feared a large chunk might be pulled out by its roots.

“Well, there is some spirit there, at least! Too bad. The idea of a slave was most appealing. No, this one is only fit for a sacrifice, I am afraid.”

“To who?” Kíli snarled, succeeding in wrenching his arms out of the clawed hands holding him, even though it meant some hair being ripped from his head. 

He stumbled to his feet, head throbbing, running blindly only to run into hands pushing him back and spinning him around. As he stumbled in the new direction, something jabbed at his side, voices hooting and calling from all around. He stopped, head raising definitely as he screamed his next words at them.

“Sauron is dead!”

A foot connected with the back of his knees, sending him crashing to the floor before his head was pulled up by the hair again.

“Gods cannot die, boy. He will return, and your pain will give him strength!”

“You’re insane!”

How many times had his mother, Thorin, Balin, pretty much everyone told him he must think before he spoke? Perhaps he should have listened a bit more closely. His cheek stung as he received a backhand to the mouth, blood trickling from a split lip.

“My, Thorin must have had fun with you! How did you survive to adulthood with that brooding, temperamental beast for an uncle? He never did have much tolerance for a smart mouth.”

Kili’s breath caught in his throat as he strained to see anything through burning, watery eyes, shocked that his captor not only knew who he was, but of Thorin’s personality as well.

“Who are you?”

This must be the leader of the cult. Only a Khazad could know such things about his family, but he could not conceive of one of his own people condoning such evil.

“Did he not tell you, little Durin? You have what should have been mine! Your mountain throne, pretty lass, gold and gems, all should have come to me! Well, now I will have my birthright, even if it must be over your dead body! Prepare him for the sacrifice! Our Lord Sauron will drink deeply of the blood of Durin this day!”

With that, clawed hands had descended upon him from every direction, ripping and pulling, shredding the clothing from his body until he huddled on his knees, shivering and naked in the cold mountain hall. Before he could think to try running again, his head was wrenched back and a foul liquid forced into his mouth, hands forcing his jaw shut when he would have spit it out. Whatever it was, the stuff burned fiercely going down his throat, sweat abruptly prickling on his forehead as he was yanked and kicked, herded off for what felt like hours. 

His bare feet were quickly cut up by the rough stone he walked on, blood squelching between his toes with every fumbling footfall, unexpected and unseen obstacles sending him crashing to the ground more than once to lie helpless until grabbed and forced on his way once more. He tried several times to read the rock around him, save himself the falls, but the pain and burning from the drug he had been made to swallow would not allow him to slip into the rock, the loss of even that small comfort bitter in his mouth. 

He had grown up on the horror stories of what goblins and orcs did with their captives, tales whispered in the night between young dwarrow out on their first lessons in wilderness survival. The throat cutting with which he and his brother had teased Bilbo so long ago had been the tamest of what might await the unfortunate victim.

When they finally stopped, Kíli was tossed down and held as his bonds were cut only to have his arms and legs stretched out as far away from him as they would go, hands above his head, and each one was lashed tight to metal rings. Knives began to slash, then, cutting into the sensitive skin under his arms and his inner thighs, then along his ribs. None were deep, meant to hurt and bleed more than kill, especially when some foul stuff had been brutally rubbed into them, making him writhe with the pain.

That had only ended when his shoulder had given way with a sickening pop and wave of agony, making him black out momentarily. He had been keeping his marked hand fisted shut, which was thankfully on his other arm, but one of his captors obviously took exception to that, a hard metal soled boot stepping down hard on his wrist.

“What are we hiding, little Durin? Open up!”

Claws dug into his hand, forcing it open, and the dwarf prince felt a ripple of power from the miniature Arkenstone imbedded there. Around him, there were cries of horror, and he gasped as knives sliced into his body. None of them went deep, the creatures once again keeping careful control, but it was enough to overwhelm him, losing that thread of a connection with the stone around him that had been created when he focused on his marked hand.

“Well, now, that is interesting. Cut it off, boys. Just the skin, it wouldn’t do for him to bleed out and leave the vipers with only a cold corpse instead of a hot meal.”

The fear was overwhelming as Kíli tried to twist away, break free somehow, though logically he knew it to be futile. Desperation, however, was rarely inclined to bow to cold reasoning, so his body bucked, throwing off hands that grabbed at him until a fist slammed his head back against the stone floor and his right shoulder tore further, spilling a renewed wave of liquid pain through him, making him black out for several precious moments. 

When he came back to himself, it was with a scream as a blade dug into the skin of his palm. How long the creatures had been at it, he did not know, but he could feel a blaze of raw pain etching an outline of the Arkenstone. Soon, they would try to cut the skin from his palm as easily as he dressed a newly slain deer carcass, but the next sound he heard was the scrape of metal upon stone.

“It won’t come, my lord _Naragel_!”

The ingratiating whine of a goblin twisted the sacred language of Khuzdul into a thing of obscenity, though the word it addressed their leader with was foul enough. Roughly translated it meant blackest of the black, the color of evil, and one of the worst curses a dwarf might utter. Had it always meant that, or was that a more modern meaning that came about because the cult used it for their leader? It was a singularly odd thing to be contemplating when in the hands of the enemy, stripped and tied to the floor as a sacrifice for some of Morgoth’s favorite pets, Kíli mused, but his fear had now given way to a numb acceptance. There was nothing to be done, after all. Why fight it?

“Fine. Pack clay around it and bake it, then. I want to be able to retrieve my pretty prize when the scavengers are done with the rest of him.”

The clay was cold on his hand as it was surrounded in the slimy stuff, but Kíli simply lay limp, half drifting as the drugs began to fog his mind. How could he be so hot when he wore nothing at all?

“W-water…”

He knew it was a mistake the moment he asked, but by then it was too late. Sudden heat around his hand made the dwarf gasp and his captors used the opportunity to stuff the mouth of a bottle between his lips and upend it. Kíli had no choice but to swallow the bitter liquid as fast as he could to prevent himself from choking on it, and the goblins did not seem inclined to stop at one attempt to drown him, either. Another bottle took its place, more of the bitter drug burning its way down his throat until his stomach felt stretched and much too full. At least it had distracted him from the heat of the clay being baked around his hand.

“Enough!”

That one barked word was all it took for his tormentors to abruptly abandon their amusement, several deliberately stepping on his stomach as they left. Kíli, meanwhile, was trying desperately to prevent himself from throwing up and adding to his misery or even causing his own death. Too many times when he was little, he had heard the whispers around the refugee camps of an elder left alone and found dead the next morning when they were unable to roll, choking or drowning on their own vomit. That was not the death he wished to experience, no matter that it would spare him the viper’s bite.

So long as he lived, there was hope. That was what he told himself over and over as his blood grew hot, body temperature soaring with the foul brew that they had forced down him. Tremors rocked his body, pulling at already sore, abused muscles as he moaned in pain, back arching as the cramps started. His head drummed a steady beat in time with a heart that would no longer stay in rhythm, racing erratically. His mind was foggy, no longer quite awake, but not truly in a dream.

“It was quite the experience, being in the company of orcs like that. I shan’t forget it, that’s for certain!”

A thrill bordering on euphoria tingled in the dwarf as he heard that wonderful, musical tone of hobbit speech. Were the voices he heard real?

“M-mer-ry! Pip-!”

_“Do you remember that foul stuff they gave us, Pip? It burned going down the throat so, I thought I would choke!”_

_“Oh, yes. Woke me up, though. I never would have had the energy to keep running otherwise.”_

_“Not a trip I would ever care to repeat, though it might be a salutary experience for some hobbits I could-“_

_“Meriadoc Brandybuck!”_

It was Bilbo’s sharp chiding that allowed some part of the prince to recognize the memory for what it was, though somehow he could not bring himself to care. Fur brushed his feet and he giggled, flexing his toes to try flicking the offender away. So what if every square inch of his body ached and he had been laid out as a feast for the rats and stone vipers?

Giggling again for no reason that his mind could supply, he allowed himself to sink deeper into the euphoric fog created by whatever he had been given, no longer having the strength to fight.


	25. Searching for the Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the search begins, and Thorin plays with a troll. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

25\. Searching for the Lost

Thorin kept a tight grip on Fíli’s shoulder as he turned to the others, knowing that his nephew would not agree with the order he was about to give. Despairingly, his eyes swept the rock and bodies of their foes one more time, as if Kíli would leap out of hiding, grinning a greeting at his trick, but it was not to be. 

“We return to camp. They will take Kíli deep, into the areas that we do not yet control, nor even have accurate maps for, believing that we would not dare to follow.”

“Thorin, surely we should try following the trail they left us first! “

Sure enough, Fíli protested, only to be silenced by a gentle shake of the arm from his uncle as Bofur laid a reassuring hand on the prince’s other shoulder, a sad smile accompanying the councilor’s words.

“Think, Fíli! They know we will follow! That trail will lead to nothing but traps and ambushes! No, we must consult what maps we do have and plan our search, not run about in a battle craze, needlessly risking lives and wasting time.” 

The blonde opened his mouth, but Thorin cut him off before he could speak.

“Your brother would not thank us for such foolishness, especially as he already blamed himself for losing that patrol this morning. You know I speak truly, Fíli.”

That there was no way Kíli could gave warned of such a thing went without saying. Had it really been only hours ago? It felt as if it had taken place in another age! Odd, that Kíli would encounter a cultist group on the very highest level of the city, where Thorin had not believed they would now dare to venture. There were only a handful of routes to the lower levels from here, and the king had thought they had them all guarded. Obviously, they had missed one. Raising his voice after receiving a reluctant nod from his oldest sister-son, the king addressed the group.

“I would ask that the leaders of each part of the army explain to your warriors what has occurred here.” 

Catching Einarr’s eye, he saw an acknowledgement from the Blacklock that he would tell the other leaders of the dwarrow contingents. Legolas and Faramir could be trusted to gather their respective peoples, whom Thorin would need to take over guard positions from those dwarrow who joined the search.

“To find Kíli, we must venture into uncontrolled areas, and quickly, meaning those who do so will be at high risk. I cannot order any to do so; I ask that each leader tally volunteers to be placed into ten person patrols. Those who do not wish to join the search can take positions guarding the camp and ensuring tasks such as meals and cleaning are properly done, which is also vitally important to us. Thank you.”

*****888*****  
Several hours later, as Thorin followed part of his search group down the main stairs, he could not help shaking his head in amazement. He and Dwalin had spent over an hour pouring over the few maps they had of the lower levels, including what Kíli had been able to fill in by reading the stone weeks ago. Because of that work, they knew that there were a number of orc and troll tunnels that were created out of natural caves to the south, near the endless stair, and both dwarrow believed this to be the most probable place for the cult to have taken Kíli. It would also explain why the Fellowship did not see any sign of the Death Warriors while going through Moria; Gandalf had led them through the northern paths, not the maze that was the west-central and southern parts of the great city.

The Warmaster had laid out the search areas in sections, dividing it up so that it would be easy to modify their plans for as few as two search groups and as many as ten. Neither had expected more than that, but when Thorin went to meet the leaders of each group, they numbered over twenty. As the king had floundered in grateful astonishment, he was informed that ten more groups were resting so they might take over where the others left off for the night. Adding to this was the fact that each team had at least one non-dwarrow, including a goodly number of elves!

Thorin had decided then that he would divide up the group he and Dwalin had originally planned to lead, sending each of them with a different team. These were all friends of Kíli, or family, and would have the best chance of recognizing any item of his that might have been dropped or planted. His decision had also been influenced by a nagging feel of something ‘not right’ about this whole mess. Had the cult still managed to infiltrate the army, despite all their precautions? New dwarrow joining them had to be vouched for by at least two others already with the army, especially if they came from any of the four eastern tribes, but-

How does a leader distinguish between those forced to abide evil done in front of them to survive from those who were actually complicit in carrying it out? Whose version of the truth was to be believed? No, far better to have at least one trusted dwarf with each team since they had the numbers, backed by a man or elf. As a further safety, the dwarrow were also deliberately mixed, breaking up those who usually patrolled together into separate groups. 

There had been some grumbling when the reassignments had been announced, but most quickly surmised that their leaders would not take such actions without cause, and held their tongues. Naturally, there was speculation as to the reason, and Thorin had been hard pressed, at first, to provide an alternate explanation, since none would take kindly to even the hint that they might be secretly allied with the cult. The handiest excuse, surprisingly enough, had come from Fíli; he had pointed out that it would be better for each team to have at least one archer, and that some would have to be shifted around to make this happen. Of course, that most of their archers had been trained by or with Kíli was carefully not pointed out.

Thorin had claimed Faramir as his, since the man outright refused to stay safely in camp. For the other eight, he had taken the Blacklock, Einarr, a Stonefoot, two Firebeards he vaguely knew from back in Ered Luin, a Broadbeam who was distantly related to Bofur, a Stiffbeard, and two lads from Erebor. Both of the latter carried bows, as well.

When Thorin had raised a questioning eyebrow at their arrival in his little huddle, the older of the two had shrugged, saying they were there on Dwalin’s orders. Thorin had briefly flicked his eyes over to his friend, tempted to argue, then let it go. He was too impatient to be at the search to become involved in an argument that he would not only lose, but would only serve to delay him further.

His group would search the sections closest to the Great Southern Rift and the far southern miner’s town before venturing down the endless stair to its beginning in the Silent Stone, the area where the ancient tombs of the Durins were to be found. From there, they would hopefully find an entrance to the orc and goblin tunnels from the south, a direction the cult would probably not expect. Others would work their way west and down, heading toward the troll caves, and more teams would head into the orc tunnels from the north, the more logical route, and draw the attention of their foes to them.

Unfortunately, Thorin had not planned for a battle almost as soon as they entered the deeper section bordering the southern abyss. They had just crossed the bridge, which was fortunately sound, and ventured into the first of the miners’ dining halls when the ground beneath them began to shake and the sound of huge footfalls echoed. All of the dwarrow, and one man, gazed around in puzzlement, as the approaching creature seemed to be coming from behind a blank wall.

“Thorin, I think we should-“

Before Faramir could complete his suggestion, the wall erupted inward in a shower of stone, a huge form barreling into their midst with all the force of an enraged dragon. Several dwarrow were sent tumbling as Thorin swept Orcrist from its sheath, but he had no chance to attack their crasher. Instead, a meaty hand swept the king from his feet, sending him flying as the first sounds of metal hitting metal told him someone had taken advantage of the creature’s distraction. Colors burst in his vision as his head bounced off the wall, body sliding down in a heap to rest on the floor as he fought to maintain a tenuous hold upon consciousness. Through the involuntary tears that blurred his eyes, the stunned dwarf finally received a good look at their foe. 

Easily twice the height of a man with a bald head and a rude leather smock half falling off its body, the cave troll bellowed in anger, swiping its club at another of the group that had the temerity to venture too close. Of all the various species of troll, these were by far the dumbest, quite a feat when their more intelligent cousins had not the wit to see that dinner that still talked back when supposedly roasting over a fire would definitely not be cooked before dawn! 

Cave trolls were little more than animals, with a rudimentary vocabulary of perhaps a dozen words and the most basic of reasoning. They were normally kept as slaves by goblins and orcs, used for their brute strength and invulnerability to most weapons. There were really only two ways to deal with them when encountered without the control of their masters – kill them as the dwarrow had done during the attack on the camp or hurt them enough that they fled.

As Thorin pushed himself up, wincing in pain, he was grateful that the brute had slapped him with an open hand. A blow with a fist in this small room could easily have resulted in breaking even a dwarf’s notoriously strong skeleton. The king regained his feet, but did not have the chance to take more than a step before being knocked flat by another dwarf being tossed through the air, the two going down in a tangle of limbs. Fortunately, the other had missed Orcrist’s naked blade or he would have easily been skewered even through his armor. 

Thorin lay gasping for a moment, then pushed at the dead weight of the other when he did not move. He heaved himself up, then turned, intending to push the wounded dwarf away from the fighting, where he would be less likely to be injured further, only to stop when unblinking eyes told him there was no need. A bellow returned his attention to the fighting in time to see Faramir let fly with an arrow that took the beast in the eye, directly next to a shorter shaft already lodged there.

Thorin charged back into the melee with a roar of anger, the ancient weapon easily finding its mark once more, plunging to the hilt in the beast’s thigh. With all the grace of a felled tree, the creature staggered and stumbled off, bellowing in pain as black blood spurted from the artery that the king had just severed. Several of the still mobile members of the group, including Faramir and Thorin, reached the doorway in time to watch the troll disappear down into the abyss that they had just crossed. 

Silence cloaked the rocky hall, broken only by the heaving breaths of the still standing dwarrow and the involuntary moans of the wounded. Torches flared to life once more as they were retrieved, bathing the room more fully in light, and Thorin’s heart sank. More than half his party was on the ground, and only two of those showed signs of continued life. How many had they lost?

“Prepare the wounded to move. We head back.”

His heart ached at the order, knowing Kíli was still out there, alone, scared, hurt, in the hands of an enemy who had tried to kill him twice already, but there was little choice. They dared not take the wounded further into danger, and the able bodied could not fight encumbered with stretchers. It would be hard enough to protect the little group as they limped back to camp.

“Thorin? Will you be able to walk?”

Skör, Dwalin’s lieutenant, appeared at his elbow, and Thorin blinked, not recalling the other having been with them. Seeing his monarch’s puzzlement, the young dwarf smiled slightly.

“We had one extra, so Dwalin assigned me to your team only to find that you had already left. I walked right into the middle of the fun.”

Of course there had ‘happened’ to be an odd number and it had not been discovered until after his team had set out! Dwalin, the old schemer, had undoubtedly wished to avoid the king’s angry rejection of his friend’s overprotectiveness. Thorin ground his teeth, sharply reminding himself that verbally flaying the poor dwarf in front of him would not be just.

“Am I to assume that there was also an extra that just ‘happened’ to be added to Fíli’s group?”

Skör, having evidently realized that this meant he was not going to be subjected to a royal temper tantrum, grinned.

“Oh, aye. And this was after Healer Wyvern claimed a spot. Prince Legolas went with him, and I sent Nast with young Therin.”

Young. Therin was only thirteen years younger than Skör, if Thorin remembered correctly. Why was it, then, that everyone saw the prince as still a child, even his family?

“Sire!”

The shout brought both dwarrow around as one of the youngest of the group, Tál, straightened from where he had been rifling a pack the troll left behind. Thorin did not try to hold back the angry oath the erupted from his lips at the sight of a scrap of bloodied cloth dangling from the young dwarf’s hand, silver threads forming part of the sigil of Kíli, Prince of Erebor, still easily seen.

“Faramir, Skör, with me. The rest of you, wait here, we won’t be long.”

They could not venture far upon the troll’s trail, but it was worth a fast look. It certainly would not take much skill, as the beasts had a tendency to run over or through anything in their path when frightened or wounded. In this case, that meant a hole in the wall creating a new entrance to the room beyond and a hidden door literally ripped from its hinges on the opposite side. From there, a long, winding corridor sloped downward into darkness, a few drops of black blood glinting in the torchlight.

“The troll was already wounded.”

Faramir knelt, rubbing some of the foul stuff between two fingers as he directed the light of his lantern to illuminate more of the trail.

“We’ll have to send another patrol to follow this. We have wounded to care for.”

The prince of men stood, nodding to the dwarf king.

“Agreed.”

“Do you think that Prince Kíli could still be alive?”

The hesitant question came from Tál as they stepped back into the room where the battle had taken place. The lad was pale, and Thorin abruptly recalled seeing his name on the short list of those dwarrow proficient in archery. It was that understanding that held the king back from issuing the biting rebuke that had been his first reaction, taking the time to wipe down and sheath his weapon before answering.

“I believe that were Kíli dead, our enemies would somehow have displayed the body to us by now.”

“Why?”

It was asked with genuine puzzlement as the young archer cocked his head, clearly trying to reason out his monarch’s thinking.

“The effect on morale, lad.” 

Skör spoke up before Thorin could, aiding another dwarf to settle onto one of the rolled canvas stretchers that all of the teams carried. Nearby, another was being constructed out of blankets and two broken spear shafts. It would only be minutes before they were ready to move. Skör handed the lad a pack as he quietly finished his statement.

“There is little that can demoralize faster than the death of a leader, Tál, especially one who is as respected and loved as Prince Kíli.”

Thorin felt a swell of pride at those words, knowing that Skör was not one to say such a thing just to curry favor. He had hoped over these last fourteen years that Fíli and Kíli would earn such regard, but it had been difficult for him to judge, as few would talk so freely in his presence. Tál frowned the thought, hand tightening on his weapon.

“I’m angry enough that he’s been taken. If we find out that they have killed him…”

There was a general rumble of agreement from the other dwarrow, making Faramir raise an eyebrow in surprise as leather and metal creaked, weapons being hefted in white-knuckled grips. Should another enemy appear now, they would be ripped to shreds. Skör gave a nod of approval, but his eyes were sad as he held up a cautioning hand, hinting at a past heavy with the weight of remembered sorrow. Thorin could only wonder at his history; the dwarf lieutenant not having been someone he recalled meeting in Ered Luin. Then, the lad was only a bit older than Fíli, so that was not all that surprising. He had been recruited recently to take the place of Dwalin’s former second, who had taken over as Warmaster in the Iron Hills.

“None of you must ever forget the first rule of battle. Mahal knows Dwalin and I have spent enough of the last two years trying to pound it into you rockheads.”

Understanding seemed to dawn on the young archer as several of the more experienced warriors flushed with shame.

“Leave anger outside of battle. It makes you reckless and stupid.”

“Exactly,” Thorin rejoined the conversation to the startlement of the other two. “When Thrór fell at Azanulbizar, the rally became a frantic rage, with no thought of tactics or how many more would be lost in a battle we all knew now mattered little. Over half of our army was killed or wounded, including Erebor’s King, Crown Prince, and the Lord of the Iron Hills. Hardly a victory worthy of celebratory drink and song. Especially as we did not set a single foot within Khazad-dûm. Control your emotions, young warrior, and you will better serve your prince than with the most righteous anger.”


	26. Prince of Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some ugly truths are brought to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
> 
> Updates this week will be on Sunday (this chapter) and Wednesday (chapter 27), as I will be out of town for the rest of the week after that.

26\. Prince of Betrayal

Hours later, Thorin wearily laid Orcrist on the stone floor as he lowered himself down onto the rough mats near his bedroll. If the cult and their dark allies had been conspicuous in their original absence, they were making up for it now. Most of their search parties had come under attack, and not just from a cave troll, as his had. They had come straggling back to the main camp in small groups carrying stretcher after stretcher over the last several hours. Thorin’s team alone had lost four out of ten, plus two wounded. Three, if he were honest enough to include his own minor injuries.

If the cult had planned to make them give up the search, however, it would not happen. The obstinacy of dwarrow was showing in every clenched jaw and hand that scraped a whetstone across a newly notched blade, preparing it to return to the field tomorrow. Thorin had wished to return to the corridors himself, to keep searching through the night, but had acceded to Senata’s stern orders to rest for a few hours, at least. Too bad the mind could not obey as easily. There would be no sleep for the exhausted king this night that would be free of the horrifying realities his nephew might be facing. Far better not to sleep at all, then.

“Sit!”

Dwalin’s harsh command brought his king’s head up to see the large dwarf pushing his eldest nephew down next to him. Fíli, of course, was having none of it, attempting to surge back to his feet the moment that the Warmaster let go, only to be thwarted by a combination of Dwalin’s low growl of annoyance and Thorin’s hand clamped around his wrist.

“Sit down, Fíli.”

The light blue eyes that glittered resentfully at his uncle already held more than a hint of desperation that was bordering on madness, making the king’s gut clench in renewed worry. Perhaps separating Fíli onto a patrol of his own had not been the wisest course after all. Tomorrow, Thorin would keep his eldest nephew with him.

“He’s still out there!”

The prince tugged futilely against his hold, spittle flying and braids whipping around with the angry words. Thorin grit his teeth, worry stoking his temper as he took in the disheveled state of his normally fastidious nephew. Fíli’s clothing was ripped and dirty, hair coming undone where one of the fasteners was missing, and a cut on his arm had clearly not been tended. 

“And teams will not stop searching until he is found, but you cannot continue without rest!”

The king gasped out the last word, sore muscles flaring as the prince’s continued struggles aggravated the injuries from being thrown into the wall. Fíli twisted again, and Thorin tightened his grip.

“I have to find Kíli!”

Head already pounding from his earlier troll assisted flight, the king closed his eyes, reminding himself that the younger dwarf could not entirely control his actions right now. Fíli had been permanently altered by the trauma of watching his brother killed in front of him, and no amount of time or reassurance would ever completely heal him. 

That meant, however, that it was not the life of one nephew currently balanced upon the edge of an abyss, but two. For if they were to lose Kíli, Fíli would surely follow, in spirit if not in actual body. Duty would require the blonde to remain alive and return to Erebor to care for the family his brother left behind, and Fíli was unfailing about such things. That did not mean that the dwarf that they knew and loved would stay, as well. Thorin’s greatest fear was to fail to bring one son home to Dis and bring the other as a mindless husk, little more than a cog in a machine doing his required duty…

Thorin’s gut clenched, threatening to expel the meager amount of food he had managed to force down earlier. He could not let that happen!

“You will rest, Fíli, for the next…” Thorin’s mind raced, knowing he would need to start high if he were to have any hope of winning a reasonable amount of rest from the other. “Eight hours, then I will personally ensure we both join the next patrol due to leave.”

“Absolutely not!” The prince at least stopped trying to stand up, blue eyes blazing as bright as the pure blue flame at the core of a hot forge furnace. “Two hours!”

Thorin made a show of allowing his eyes to narrow angrily, though inside he cheered at the victory of getting the younger dwarf to consider resting at all.

“Six hours, and you eat a full meal now and when you wake. You are no good to your brother if you collapse!”

He braced himself for another explosion from the blonde, muscles tightening in anticipation. Now, however, the anger in the other was extinguished as quickly as it flared. Fíli had instead taken on such a perfect look of put upon martyrdom that he could only have learned it from growing up with such a master of manipulation as Kíli.

“Three! And I will only promise to try to eat as much as I can. Please, uncle! It is as much as I can stand!”

Truthfully, it was about as much as the king himself would be able to tolerate, too, but he could hardly admit that! Instead, he allowed his face to harden, wishing Dwalin would stop watching them with such an air of grim amusement. Fíli would worm his way through the slightest crack in Thorin’s defenses, and his friend was decidedly not helping!

“Four, Fíli, and if you argue further, I will send to the healers for a sleeping draught.” He did not mention that it was what he should do anyway, for them both. “I will see about getting us suitable meals.”

The nod was grudging, but the bargain was struck. Now, as to food… Perhaps his stomach would not put up such a fuss at a bit of soup? This time, it was his own shoulders being held, pinning him in place. Startled, the king twisted to look up and behind him, a move quickly aborted by a stifled groan of pain. Above him, Dwalin snorted, rolling his eyes as he muttered something about stupidity and stubborn royals.

“Stay there, I heard what happened to your bunch. Kifir said he and Frodo would send meals this way before joining Bofur’s group heading out.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing you need worry about.”

Fíli’s body had snapped taut, almost quivering with renewed emotion as widened eyes carefully scrutinized every visible inch of his kin. Thorin sighed, laying a reassuring hand on the younger dwarf’s arm, making the blonde instinctively scoot closer, seeking comfort as he had when still a child. Thorin willingly pulled him in to rest against his side, blonde head resting on his shoulder as his nephew’s eyes slid closed, savoring his uncle’s presence. The healers had warned the king of such rapid mood changes in the prince, and Thorin was not about to turn him away. He did, however, send a glare Dwalin’s way over the blonde’s head. 

While the king could not blame his old friend for being concerned, he did wish that Dwalin had thought to exercise a bit more discretion. Fíli was hypersensitive at the moment, balanced emotionally upon the edge of a blade; hearing that another member of his family was injured might only serve to destabilize him further. 

As it was, the trauma induced mood swings often left Thorin floundering, especially when the younger dwarf abruptly reverted to the long discarded patterns of childhood, as he did now. Thorin had never been partial to children, mostly because he did not know how to deal with them. It would be so much easier were they truly the miniature adults that they sometimes seemed! This was less difficult than the more self-destructive habits some among the healers had feared, however, such as becoming drunk daily or outright violence, two other common reactions among dwarrow. From over Fíli’s shoulder, Thorin caught the discreet movements of Dwalin’s fingers spelling out the full tale in Iglishmêk.

‘His patrol said he threw himself into fighting. Almost berserker.’

Thorin winced, recalling all too vividly what it was like to have such a fighter in the midst of a patrol. They were often more of a danger to their own side then to the enemy, leaving comrades without support and taking unnecessary risks. Not to mention the problems it presented to those attempting to guard the prince from the very harm he threw himself into. The hand still resting on Fíli’s back crooked into a return question of his own, knowing Dwalin would easily see it from where he stood slightly to the side of the king.

‘Injuries?’

‘Two dead, others minor, including Fíli. Cracked ribs on right side.’

Thorin winced, glad the lad was resting his left side against his uncle. It took an awful lot of force to break dwarrow bones.

‘What?’

‘Cave troll. Scared it off.’

That earned a bitter chuckle from Thorin, which made Fíli stir, peering up at his uncle.

“What?”

“Nothing, Fíli. That cave troll you did such a good job scaring off ran right through a wall and into the middle of my patrol.”

The prince tried to jerk away, even though such a move must have made his ribs shriek in protest, but once more Thorin tightened his hold to keep him in place.

“I am fine, a few bruises from where I knocked into a wall, nothing more.”

No need to tell him that it was actually more like six feet through the air and then a slide of four more down the wall to the floor. 

A few more silent words passed between the warrior and his king.

‘Sleeping draught in soup.’

Dwalin gave him a chiding look, but said nothing, moving off to intercept the approaching hobbit with their promised meals as Thorin enjoyed the momentary silence. One hand idly running up and down Fíli’s back, the king found himself content to merely sit, allowing his mind to escape the cares that were piled on. The blonde prince, too, was quiet, body finally relaxing from that quivering anxiety that he had been plagued with since sitting down.

There was no need for spoken reassurances or pledges of renewed searching now, uncle and nephew in silent accord. Kíli would be found, one way or another, and if the worst happened, he would be avenged. But such doubts could not be entertained until long past the point they were now at, especially as the Arkenstone continued to beat a steady pulse of lights and warmth before them. They were not to enjoy such peace for long, however.

“Uncle…”

Thorin shook off the haze of worry and exhaustion at the tentative call, grimacing as he took in a mouthful of coffee that had gone cold sitting by his knee. Fíli’s appearance had driven the drink from his mind even as the approach of his youngest nephew had reminded him. He needed to speak further with the lad about the circumstances surrounding Kili’s disappearance, but when they were both tired and emotionally spent was hardly the time.

“What is it, Therin? You should be resting.”

If he had hoped to forestall the other, though, it obviously was not going to work. Instead, Therin flinched slightly at the harsh tone, shifting from foot to foot and twisting his hands around in a very undwarrow-like fidget. For no reason that the king could comprehend, the sight of a dwarf prince displaying the mannerisms of a hobbit made his temper flare, hands clenching into fists as he stopped himself from berating the boy. It was not his fault it had been unsafe to raise him in the mountain like a proper dwarf.

“You have something to report, Therin?”

Dwalin’s voice intruded with a sharp note of command that instantly stilled the nervous prince, bringing him to attention in the presence of his old teacher.

“Yes, sir. I- There’s two dwarrow missing from my patrol.”

The large Warmaster grunted, kneeling to hand Thorin and Fíli the hot mugs of soup he carried, but the blonde prince spoke before the others could.

“So?” It was a derisive scoff as he glared resentfully at the wrong younger brother, “They’re probably off getting drunk. Why should they care that my brother’s still missing?”

Bitterness dripped from every word, making Therin flush, his own face tightening at the insult when Fíli compounded the pain a hundred fold.

“I’m surprised that you aren’t with them. That’s why you left Kíli alone in the dark, isn’t it? Because I told you how much he hated it?”

Thorin’s breath exploded in a disbelieving gasp as he hastily put down his mug, moving to restrain his older nephew before the confrontation could escalate. Surely Fíli did not truly believe the words he had just spoken? Therin took a step closer, body quivering in suppressed emotion, but it was no longer the rage of someone wrongfully accused. No, the lad’s face had gone bone white at his brother’s words, guilt flashing all too plainly in dark blue eyes as words seemed to erupt from him as fast as he could wrap a tongue about the syllables.

“I only meant to scare him! I never would have taken him down that hall if I had known it was a real tr-“

“WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

The bellow shook the very stone as Fíli barreled past his uncle, one hand seeking the other’s throat, face twisted in a rage Thorin had prayed never to see upon kin. Futilely, he grabbed at the blonde, but Fili was easily able to tear from his grasp after mere seconds, the king having difficulties fully gaining his feet with protesting ribs. Fortunately, those few seconds of delay allowed Dwalin to position himself, enveloping the enraged prince in a bear hug that wrapped muscular arms firmly around his torso. It would take a stronger dwarf than Fíli to break that iron grip, even though the Armsmaster was well over two hundred years old.

“Fíli! Stop this!”

Thorin barked, grabbing at Fíli’s face only to have it torn away, the prince’s yells overriding his own demand. By now, there was a crowd gathering in the doorway to their little room, but none dared to enter.

“What did you do?! Tell me! Were you truly so jealous that you want him dead? How could you?! He trusted- Let me go!”

Dwalin did the opposite, tightening his grasp until he lifted Fíli bodily from his feet, making the other loose the traction to continue fighting him. Thorin grimaced as sharp eyes caught the abrupt shifting in Fíli’s right side, one of his lower ribs most likely giving way. The prince gasped, his face going a shade paler, but showed no other sign of what must have been agony. If Fíli did not stop thrashing, more damage could be done, including some that could put the prince’s life in danger. By the look Dwalin gave him as he jerked his head aside to avoid Fíli’s attempted head-butting, it was clear he had felt the damage in his charge’s body as well. The blonde had only taken one sip of the soup before blowing up, not enough for the strong herbs placed in it to take effect quickly. 

Instead, Dwalin simply held the prince as carefully as he could, allowing the younger dwarf to exhaust himself as Thorin watched. Several minutes passed in tense silence, Fíli obviously having decided that angry yelling was getting him nowhere. All the while, Therin stood rooted to the spot he had been in when the whole mess started, staring at the floor with unblinking eyes. Finally, Fíli began to slump, allowing Thorin and Dwalin to lower the limp body to the ground. Senata and Bofur were suddenly at the king’s side, the healer running a careful hand over the prince’s side.

“It’s broken, but it hasn’t shifted much.”

Thorin nodded gratefully, resting one hand on Bofur’s shoulder as he stood.

“Will the two of you stay with him?”

“You need to ask?”

Bofur offered a weak smile, dark eyes sad as he waved the king away. Thorin turned and grabbed Therin roughly by the arm, yanking the lad a few feet further away as Dwalin crowded close. Once there, the king put a hand under his nephew’s chin to force the errant child to look at them. Therin was crying hard, body quaking and eyes wide in distress as his head began to shake desperately back and forth.

“I didn’t know, Uncle! I swear to you that I didn’t know!”

“Know what, boy? You’re not makin’ a lick of sense!”

Dwalin growled, earning a reproving glare from Thorin when the gruff demand only served to make the lad shake harder. As angry as Thorin was, scaring the child half to death would not get them answers!

“Therin!” Thorin settled for giving his nephew’s arm a rough shake. “I need you to tell me what is going on!”

“I-“ 

The youngster closed his eyes, visibly collecting himself, and Thorin was reminded once more that as sheltered as Fíli and Kíli had been growing up, Therin had been more so. This was an emotional, jealous, foolish child in the body and role of an adult. It was a position that Thorin never should have placed him in, but the boy had seemed to adapt to his changing responsibilities so well that the king had taken it for granted that he would mature, just as Fíli and Kíli had on the quest. To Therin’s credit, the prince seemed to decide he needed to face his uncle as an adult, a deep breath making the quaking fade as blue eyes raised to meet his own. The guilt there made Thorin’s heart sink.

“You know Kíli and I haven’t been getting along. I- I was jealous that he was all anybody seemed to focus on. When somebody referred to the prince, it was always Kíli, even though I am supposed to be your heir!” 

The king bit back a groan, silently cursing himself. Fíli had been right, all those weeks ago, and Thorin had brushed it off.

“You were always too busy, and when you needed something important done, it was Fíli or Kíli you asked, not me! I thought I could earn your respect by being a warrior, as Mister Dwalin taught us, but when I tried to spend time with my patrol, they called me ‘lad’ and sent me off to find some milk instead of ale!”

Once more, Therin paused to swipe angrily at the tears leaking from his eyes. Thorin met Dwalin’s gaze, to receive a discreet shake of the head. The Warmaster had heard nothing of this trouble, either. Therin resumed, bringing the older two dwarrow’s attention back to him.

“Then when the reinforcements came, two new dwarrow joined, and they started chiding the others for brushing me off and inviting me to drink with them. They said Kíli was arrogant, and someone needed to remind him that he was no better than I was! I- They started asking if Fíli and Kíli treated me the same, encouraging me to tell them while we practiced, and saying that they had heard the older princes believed that I wasn’t worthy of being your heir, and that you should get rid of me! Send me back to the Shire where I belonged! But if I was able to prove I was braver and a better fighter, that it wouldn’t happen!”

“Oh, Therin…” Dwalin’s tone was profoundly disappointed, but also not surprised. Had this been brewing for longer than Thorin thought, and he had missed it completely? “What did you do, lad?”

“I- They-“ The young dwarf ducked his head, one foot scuffing the stone as he refused to look at them. “It was just supposed to scare him. A trigger stone to a deadfall trap they swore they had reset with nothing but dust and pebbles. I was supposed to take him down there and leave him in the dark with it caving in, ‘cause Fíli told me once after one of Kili’s nightmares that it’s what had scared him since he was a child. Bein’ alone, in the dark, with a cave-in. I’m sorry!”

“Sorry you did it or sorry that you got caught?”

Bofur pushed past a startled Dwalin to confront the young prince, anger burning in his countenance in a highly unusual display for the normally jovial toymaker turned councilor. He roughly grabbed Therin’s arm, shaking it much as Thorin had earlier.

“Did Fíli not tell you why Kíli held those fears so deeply?”

“N-no.”

Therin stuttered and the councilor made a noise of disgust low in his throat. Before he could say more, however, Thorin brought them back onto the true shaft line.

“And now these dwarrow who tricked you have vanished? Are you certain they are not elsewhere in the camp?”

The prince shook his head miserably.

“No. I looked, and one of the sentries said they went past him just after Kíli and I left and didn’t return.”

No wonder the cult had just happened to stumble into Kíli alone in that corridor! It had been planned the entire time. The king’s blood boiled at the carnage wrought by the childish behavior of a jealous sibling. He should have known that the boy was still too young and naïve to be brought here! If Kíli should die as a result of his actions…

No matter how innocently conceived, the fact was that Therin had knowingly acted to place his brother in a position where Kili’s life was in danger. There was only one punishment under dwarrow law for fratricide, and it was the same as that of endangering a royal, but to enforce it would tear apart what family the king had left. A cold, hard lump settled in his stomach as Thorin accepted the actions he must now take, knowing that his sister might never forgive him.

“Warmaster Dwalin, you will oversee the conversion of a storage nook into a cell. You, Therin, will await your fate there until such time as we know the true depth of your crimes, stripped of title and family.”

“NO!” 

The objection shocked Thorin as Fíli suddenly appeared at his side, a fuming Senata one step behind the prince. Thorin paused, eyes taking in his oldest nephew’s condition as he waited for the prince to regain the ability to speak through the pain. He was pale, with one arm wrapped protectively about his torso and a drug haze in his eyes, but he certainly appeared to be cognizant of what was occurring. The cold glance he spared the miscreant was certainly icy enough.

“I will hear the words of the Prince of Erebor.”

It was extremely formal, especially for a rough army camp, but that was the only way Thorin could keep himself steady right now. Things had not collapsed about his ears in such a spectacular fashion since he had watched Smaug fly off toward Laketown on a cold autumn night.

“King of Khazad-dûm.” Fíli gave a brief bow of his head, acknowledging the tie as formally as his uncle just had. “I ask only that you keep him on the search, allow him to see the pain that his actions have wrought.”

Thorin did not answer immediately, weighing the benefit in Fíli’s request versus the risk. As had long been his way, he sought out the stern visage of his shield-brother where the other stood with one large hand wrapped securely around Therin’s upper arm. The young dwarf had not said a word or moved since Thorin’s pronouncement. Dwalin’s eyes flicked down to the lad for a second before giving a minute nod.

“So be it.” The boy finally reacted, flinching hard at Thorin’s deep voice speaking his doom. “But he is to be allowed no weapon on search, and will be confined at all other times without visitors unless I order otherwise. Meals are to be bread, fruit and water.”

Thorin stalked quickly away to stare broodingly out over the camp, unable to watch as the shaking, sniffling dwarfling was led away. In his mind, he heard similar words as Durin IV ordered his own son imprisoned and prayed to Mahal that this time, there would somehow be a happy ending.


	27. Cold, Hard Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kili suffers some more, and has a visitor or two...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
> 
> Warning: If you are phobic about snakes, you will want to stop reading at "Rock. He was simply a part of the floor." and pick up again where the first text is in italics. That section might be a bit creepy.

27\. Cold, Hard Stone

Kili had no idea how long he had been lying there when he finally came out of his stupor, the euphoric feelings slowing fading as reality was again acknowledged. Most of his cuts had faded to burning lines, a trickle of warmth against his skin letting him know that whatever foul stuff the goblins had rubbed in, it was preventing clotting. It also felt unusually warm, as if newly heated water trickled over him, just shy of scalding, and a shiver wracked his naked form, though from the fires within or the freeze without, Kili could not say. There must have been herbs in that stuff they forced on him that raised his blood temperature, probably to attract the scavengers, especially the stone vipers.

The serpents had supposedly been created long ago, so long that no written records survived, only stories passed down through the ages. They were said to be a twisting of several natural creatures, a tribute offered to the original dark lord by Sauron, his lieutenant. The fell lord had been pleased, breeding many more as a way to finally reach the stubborn dwarrow, hidden deep in their halls of stone. As such, those who worshiped the dark lords had come to view them as messengers to him, using them in sacrifices and even, supposedly, keeping them as pets. At least those were the tales whispered by traders who had ventured on the southern routes where such vile practices had still held sway.

A viper bite would almost instantly paralyze its prey, then the skin would slowly start to melt away, as if touched by acid, spilling the hot blood that the creatures craved. It was the stuff of nightmares, and unlike most other children of Ered Luin, Kili also knew it to be all too real. 

Memories whispered, buried deep for so many years, and his breathing hitched, recalling the smell and feel of the dead laying so close to him. How had he forgotten that? The mere thought was enough for Kili to swing from euphoric to hysterical in less than a minute, tears leaking from pained eyes as he sobbed, struggling for breath and control. Fur brushed his leg and tiny claws dug into his bare leg, making him shudder, but it was the scrape of dry scales on stone that truly alarmed him.

They seemed to come from all around, hissing quietly as they came closer, ever closer. At any moment, he expected to feel the liquid fire of fangs sinking into flesh, bringing with them an end. Now, more than ever before, he wished to truly be stone, unfeeling and impenetrable by such hazards of the flesh. The noise filled his ears, hissing and the scraping of scales as the agitated creatures puffed up their bodies, shaking back and forth in warning. They were preparing to strike their prey. 

Rock. He was simply a part of the floor.

At the first touch of scales upon skin, Kili could not stop the scream, high pitched and primal, his bladder releasing its overfull load as his body quaked with both fear and a renewal of the muscle spasms caused by the drug he had been force-fed. Pain bit into his wrists and ankles as he fought, squirming on the hard floor. Escape. He must get away, must subsume himself in the stone. 

A blunt nose bumped into his cheek and he froze, terror forcing a control he thought gone as another tear tracked a burning trail down ice cold skin. He could hear the hisses of the snakes as they circled him, almost as if they were attempting to make sense of the contradictory information they were receiving from scent and heat. The one by his ear gave a low rasp, almost a grunt, as it prodded his cheek again, the tongue tickling, but he dared not attempt to turn away. Would the thing bite his very face?

He gagged as scales rasped over his face instead, pulling at the skin as the thick body wound its way up. Kili held his breath, terrified that even a puff of hot air from his nose or mouth might seal his fate. The viper did not pause, seeming intent upon an unknown goal, forcing the prince to lay there, tears still leaking from his eyes. 

The slow track of the thing was its own unique torture as it slowly made its way to the hollow created by his dislocated shoulder on the opposite side. There, it coiled up, settling in as Kili gagged again. His skin crawled and he stifled another scream, body quivering as a childhood nightmare came to life. His cheeks heated and it took all his control to keep still as two more seemed to be intent upon settling in his crotch. What were they doing? He flushed, abruptly realizing that they were seeking out the warmest spots, as if locating the perfect places to bask as normal snakes would do upon a sunny day.

_“Why aren’t you dead yet, little brother? You should be. Don’t you have enough practice at dying to finally do it correctly?”_

The voice was bright with amusement, making him start in surprise, only stilling when his unwelcome visitors hissed their own displeasure. He had not heard any footsteps break the stillness that consumed him. Desperate, he twisted his head as far as he could, straining burning eyes for even a hint of light and the promised presence of the one who could end this torment for him.

“F-fili! Help!”

Kili’s sobbing renewed, despite the risk of unsettling of the vipers, as he continued to peer around him, seeking that beloved face in the unrelieved black. Why did his brother hesitate to shoo away the vile creatures and cut the bindings? Had his prayers to Mahal been answered so readily? Would Fili not release him? He was on the verge of begging when the voice came again, dashing his hopes.

_“I can’t help you, Kee. No one can.”_ There was a sadness now, but also a note of malicious satisfaction, such as Kili had heard in that grotto in Mirkwood, when his brother believed their uncle to be Thranduil. _“You were meant to die long ago, you know. In that cave the man put you in. Maybe you did die there, and didn’t have the wit to realize.”_

The cruel words twisted in his soul as the ordeal he had suffered as a child came fully to mind for the first time. Alone, cold, scared, only the dead for company. Was this the way he was meant to die, truly? The next thing he heard was a soft, sad whisper.

_“I only came to say goodbye.”_

Kili finally saw him, then, kneeling by his head and reaching out to run one hand down his brother’s cheek, heedless of the deadly serpent coiled nearby. It was only then that he realized that this had to be a hallucination. There was still no light in his world, and Fili was dressed as he had been so long ago during the first part of their quest, in the coat that their mother and Kili had made him for Durin’s Day the year before. 

The coat that had been lost when they were taken captive by the elves in Mirkwood.

As if the realization broke some enchantment, Fili was gone as abruptly as he had come, leaving the brunette to spill more bitter tears as harsher voices took the blonde’s place, giving voice to taunts that he had heard a thousand times before.

_“Such behavior from a Prince of Durin! Perhaps he is a tender-hearted elf after all! Should we feed him some leaves and see?”_

_“That must be why he leaves his hair loose – to hide the ears!”_

_“Only cowards use bows.”_

_“Dis should be ashamed to show her face with such a son! At least if he were a daughter, he would be of some value!”_

_“Why? Even with dwarrowdams so few, I would not pledge to such a one!”_

_“Second son, the extra! Can’t even manage an ax!”_

The harsh mockery was flung at him from every direction, echoing over and over as it was caught by the stone until a hundred voices scorned and laughed, filling his ears. Futilely, the prince tugged at the bonds holding his good arm, desperate to cover his ears and block out the cruelty he had known so often as a child.

As with any race, young dwarrow could be cruel and unfeeling, especially to those perceived as different, and Kili had been about as unlike his peers as any dwarrow ever born. A tiny, thin, sickly body had given way to muscles over time, but then he had gained in height, rivaling his uncle, while he stayed thin. Add to that his fondness for the woods over the interior of the mountain, his use of a bow, and unusual sensitivity, and there was no end to the ways they could pick on him. The fact that they dared not lay a physical hand upon a prince of Durin outside the sparring ring, which had been under the stern gaze of Master Dwalin at all times, had made their tongues even sharper whenever they could catch him alone. 

He had learned early on how to hide the bruises and sew up the tears in his clothing so his mother would never see. He had also found that the presence of others made the cruelties harder to deliver, lest the tormenters have their fun spoiled. That was the true reason he had become Fili’s shadow, always a step behind his brother wherever the other went, though it was one he dared not speak aloud for fear of further mocking. His brother knew, he was certain, but respected Kili’s wish for silence while taking to lurking around the younger dwarf whenever those who tormented him were nearby, even if it meant a scolding from an oblivious adult.

Kili had known that if he spoke up about what was occurring, none would refute the word of Thorin Oakenshield’s nephew, no matter how much they wished to deny such behavior upon the part of their children, but he could not bring himself to do so. A prince of Durin was meant to be strong and independent, a leader, not a victim. The disappointment he was sure to see in the eyes of his mother… Thorin… at the realization that he was so weak… that would cut deeper than any mere taunts. As if summoned by his thoughts, the familiar voices rang in his ears.

_“I have already mourned you once, why must you go out of your way to ensure I must mourn you again? Is it any wonder that I needed Therin and LIs, now? They know not to leave their mother alone in grief!”_

_“What were you thinking, going by yourselves so far from the sentries? Are you but a selfish child? I had thought better sense had finally been pounded into that ignorant head! Now look at what you have done! Your brother dead and you stretched out like some Wildman’s offering! You are no kin of mine!”_

Scornful blue eyes hovered in front of him, every slight, thoughtless comment and reckless action reflected in the derisive sneer that twisted the lips. Surely he spoke that truth, that Therin had died because his brother failed to warn him in time, to protect him as he had promised their mother! Was this how Fili had felt, watching him die by inches from the morgul poison? But Fili was not responsible for his brother’s choices!

Abruptly, Kili’s emotions took another wild swing, anger at the unfairness of Thorin’s accusations surging through him so hot that the serpents coiled and hissed, shifting in agitation. Opening his mouth, he screamed at the other, not caring that the actual words were slurred and disjointed when they came out. It was clear enough in his head.

“What right do you have to judge me? I did everything I could just for a kind word from you, one shred of approval, but you left me alone to die! You didn’t care how ill I was, only for your precious mountain! And still I came back! I died for you! I am worthy! I am!”

The last two words were a hoarse screech, desperate and defiant at once, as if he could shout down all the doubts in his own soul.

_“Are you, little brother? What have you ever done to show your worth beyond getting shot with arrows and bring our enemies down upon us? If you had just done as Thorin asked and stayed home that night, none of it would have happened, you know.”_

It was true! It had been his stupidity that had gotten them chased! Why should he not be the one to pay the price?

_“Why did you have to come? You had everything – the mountain, a wife, child, happiness. All that I was supposed to inherit. You should have stayed where you belonged, Kili. Then I wouldn’t have had to leave you to them, to die alone in the dark.”_

Had it been deliberate? Did Therin truly hate him so? The tears came faster now, heedless of the agitated serpents on him, and he began to drift again, welcoming the escape until another voice tore him out of it.

_“Why have they not begun to feast yet?”_

The first inkling that Kili had that the last voice might actually be real was the angry stir of one of the serpents on his midsection. When the scaly body began to drop off of him, he almost sobbed with relief, had there been any tears left for him to cry. When had he stopped? How long ago had his mouth begun to feel so dry and cottony, his body craving liquid with a thirst so powerful he would have begged at the slightest hint of such a relief being offered? 

Another snake stirred, hissing loudly in discontent before also leaving, then another, coiled near his rib cage, and the one on his aching shoulder. Soundlessly, his cracking lips mouthed his thanks over and over, only to cringe when the crackle of a torch drew near. Would they burn him now? Brand him as he had sometimes heard they did to slaves, disfiguring and grotesque? 

A footstep, though muffled, as if someone walked with their feet wrapped in cloth. He froze, breathing harsh as he waited helplessly for the blow of a weapon or a hand yanking at his abused head, forcing more drugs into his already overtaxed system. The other crouched, but the hand that lifted his head was surprisingly gentle. 

Liquid was dribbled on his lips and he braced for the burn of more foul potions even as he submitted, opening a starved mouth to receive any nourishment he could. Instead, water trickled in, pure, sweet and shockingly cold, the first mouthful not even enough to swallow as starved tissues sucked it up. Three more swallows were allowed, then the other pulled back, allowing his head to slump back to the floor with a dull thud that Kili barely felt, he hurt so much throughout his body. He coaxed one word from a painful throat.

“Help.”

A rustle of cloth and the sound of a body hitting the stone floor followed an alarmed squawk, more water splashing on his face, tantalizingly close, but too far for a questing tongue to lick up. Silence descended and Kili stilled, resigned that the other was yet another hallucination meant to torment. Had the water been real or some sick fantasy of a dying body? Then a finger prodded at his shoulder, making him grunt at the flaring pain from the bruising and swelling undoubtedly there.

_“Alive?”_ The voice whispered in the darkness, as if someone spoke to themselves. _“How odd. The vipers should have killed you by now.”_

Could this be real? If it were so, why had the other thought to pour water down the throat of a corpse? At this point, Kili was beyond the shame that came from pleading for his life. Let them think him weak, he no longer cared, he simply could not stand the thought of returning to the darkness for all time.

“P-please… Help!”

_“Help?”_ The other repeated, as if testing the word to decide what it might mean. _“No. No, no, no, can’t do that. No.”_

Nothing but another hallucination meant to torment him, then. He wanted to scream, curse, cry, he did not know anymore! Stone. Cold, emotionless stone.

“W-why?”

It was more a forlorn plea to Mahal then a real question. After all, those who were not even real could do nothing for him. The answer, however, was more puzzling than enlightening.

_“You trick me. You always do. Never what you seem, no. Safer to be alone, safer, yes, much better. Hide, they said. My brothers. Hide if there is trouble and we will come for you. But they haven’t. You came instead, seeking to torment and trick.”_ The voice altered to an almost singsong cadence, muffled steps circling him in dance. _“Fool me once, I am a dunce; fool me twice, you’re not nice; fool me thrice, live with the mice; fool me four, I am an elf forevermore!”_

Desperate to keep the other talking, even in his own mind, Kili seized upon the words, not wanting to be left alone with the cold dark and the vile serpents. Vaguely, he recognized pieces of the distorted, singsong chant as something he had heard long ago in the Blue Mountains.

“F-fool…?”

The laugh was almost manic and right in his ear, making him jerk his head so that it bounced on the stone floor.

_“Always a fool, me. Take on a dragon! Walk into the dark pit! I’ve seen others come, like you. Once I was certain there was a dwarf with them, but then I saw the elf.”_ Cackling as fingers ran up his chest, making the prince shudder. _“Gloin and an elf walking side by side! The creature followed them. The one who spoke of hobbits and stolen preciouses, so I hid again. Always hiding.”_

It was only then that Kili dared to believe that someone just might truly be here, but as abruptly as the other had come, he was gone, only silence and the steady drip of water left in his wake. He must have blacked out, as he could not recall hearing the other leave. Either that, or it had all been mind tricks. He bit back a curse as the sound of the vipers returning reached him instead. Would this torment never end? Desperate, he fought hard to pull himself through the fog that tried to separate him from the stone, wanting to feel the footsteps, to know that it had been real. So much stone, ancient, all around him, tunnels and stairs, a never ending maze!

There was no sign of his visitor that he could detect, so he allowed his mind to slide further out, searching for evidence that any still lived in this horrid place. He knew from long experience that he would not hear words, but the stone picked up the vibration of voices sounding near it. Each language had its own cadences, its own murmur in the rock that was as distinct to him as the actual words would be to the ears listening.

There, the harsh staccato beat of the Black Tongue, barking orders. The constant low music of the elves, barely caressing the stone. He almost stopped there, but a part of him longed for the heavy rumble of Khuzdul, so he continued on, trying a bit closer to the catacombs he could sense his body lying in.

There!

Voices, far away, but speaking the low rumble of Khuzdul, so sweet to his ears even when the words were indistinguishable. Dwarrow, venturing closer to where he was then he had thought possible. They were about to walk past the path to where he was, and he sobbed in renewed frustration. Could he do nothing to aid them in his rescue? 

And… There! A door, still warm with the heat of a hand. With a thought, Kili brushed against the trigger, gasping as pain brought him back to his lonely present and he realized he had twisted his body as if actually trying to touch portal. It was so warm… 

Was that sweat or blood that trickled down his temple? Were the drugs once more heating his body, or had the fever begun to burn? Exhausted, Kili let himself sink into darkness once more, not caring that he might not be strong enough to find his way out.


	28. Remnants of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some sign of Balin's colony is found and the search for Kili continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

28\. Remnants of the Past

Thorin was awake at dawn, unable to sleep anymore as his mind insisted upon supplied horror after horror from too many years of history, tragedy playing out time and again despite all that his long ago kin could do. Thorin knew what warning the dreams whispered; time was running out for Kíli. He was certain of it, he just was not sure what more could be done. 

Pulling himself out of the blankets near his still sleeping nephew, he was careful to leave his boots off as he padded quietly across the stone to the small folding camp table where they had laid out the maps. A blunt finger gently traced each line that marked off where the teams had searched before coming to rest on the room in which he had fought the troll.

“We sent teams to follow the track of the brute last night.”

The king blinked stupidly at the mug Nast held out to him for a long moment before accepting it and taking a long swallow of the bitter coffee within. The younger dwarf smiled faintly at the king’s grimace.

“Dwalin made it. Said you would need it after last night.”

Thorin grunted, trying to decide if he should thank his shield brother or throw him in the pool outside the western gate. Whoever had told Dwalin that he could actually brew coffee either had no taste buds left, or was an exceedingly cruel individual. Thorin suspected Dis. Or perhaps Balin. His older cousin always had had a subtly wicked sense of humor, especially when given the opportunity to torment his younger brother or Thorin.

“He was right. What are you doing up so early? Didn’t you go out with one of the night teams?”

“Yes, and I haven’t actually been to bed yet. One of the other teams said they found something we should see, then I have to go meet my father. Apparently, he didn’t bother waiting for a message.”

That garnered a snort and roll of the eyes. At least that meant that everything was stable enough in Erebor and Dale that Nori felt comfortable leaving. He had wanted to come with the army, but Thorin and the princes had persuaded him to stay in the mountain long enough to ensure that the cult would not seek to take advantage of their absences to move against the princesses.

“For a thief, Nori never has been the most patient dwarf around. I’ll wake Fíli. Is there a team ready to go out?”

“Yes. They’re eating breakfast now, but I’ll make sure there is some left for the two of you.”

“Make it something we can eat while we walk, it’s probably the only way I’ll get Fíli to agree. And make sure Therin is ready to come with us.”

A part of him was still livid with his youngest nephew for the blatant treason of his actions, but a deeper part had begun to whisper that it was the actions of a foolish child, nothing more. Could he not find a way to forgive a mistake made in innocence? But what of the very real consequences of those actions for Fíli and Kíli? Did that not warrant the punishment of an adult, fully aware that what they did was wrong? Blood versus justice, and either way he chose, he had to lose! 

His fist slammed into the table top, making the coffee left in the earthenware mug splash out onto the map, several dark brown dots beading up and beginning to swear the ink. Swearing, Thorin glanced around for a rag, then grabbed the parchment and gave it a shake away from the other maps beneath. When he was satisfied that it seemed dry, he spread it back out, grimacing at the lines of coffee stain cutting haphazardly through the walls of the southern section of the city. 

Would that they could so easily cut through all their troubles in such a way! Weary of such heavy moral contemplations when he was not yet even fully awake, he knelt to gently shake his oldest nephew, a cup of herbs meant to counteract the remnants of the sleeping draught already waiting nearby.

*****888*****

As Thorin had suspected, it did not take long at all for Fíli to be up and armored, pacing impatiently as Thorin consulted the map one more time. The thump of dwarrow boots on stone alerted the king to the arrival of the search team they would be with, but he was not expecting the gathering that awaited him when he glanced up. He had known Dwalin would be there, especially after commanding Therin to be included, and Nast was on the disgraced prince’s other side, but behind them stood Legolas, Tauriel, Faramir, Bofur, Kifir, and Frodo, as well as Einarr, Senata, and one other dwarf Thorin did not know on sight. When the king raised an eyebrow at such a large number, Bofur shrugged.

“The lads insisted, and I wasn’t about to turn them down with three who aren’t warriors in the bunch. Besides, Nast will return to camp after they show us whatever the team found last night.”

Thorin nodded, eyeing the elven lady carefully even as he noted with amusement that Bofur had neglected that two of the party were most definitely lasses. Both, however, could fight, so the king had no objection to their inclusion. Tauriel was a warrior trained, good enough to be Captain of the Mirkwood Guard, and anyone who did not believe those who healed also knew the fastest ways to kill were clearly mentally deficient!

“Your leg is sound?”

One flame red eyebrow went up, as if daring him to object to her presence.

“Yes.”

“Lead the way.”

That was directed at the strange dwarrow with Nast and the Blacklock, Einarr, whom Thorin was finding he did not mind the company of, despite his heritage. Dwalin looked to be less than pleased, but had his hands full prodding along a silent, downcast Therin. Unsurprisingly, the trio led them through the room where Thorin had been attacked and the resulting hole to retrace the troll’s steps for about twenty minutes. Finally, they branched off, entering the ancient tombs deep under the southern edge of the city. There, across from the tombs of Durin II and his wife, Frey, was a door propped carefully open.

This area of Khazad-dûm was a vast maze, eerie in its silence, home only to the dead. Overhead, an ancient bridge arched between two more tombs, statues of ax wielding dwarrow standing eternal guard. Of course, not all of the dead of the city had been interred here. Most had been removed to catacombs built into the mountains north and south of the city, the entrances carefully concealed from those who would desecrate them. Only the royal families and high dwarf lords were returned to the stone deep under the actual city that they ruled. Thorin raised an eyebrow at their guide, curious.

“How was this found?”

The warrior turned to give his king a short bow.

“Dagrûn was with us; he bears blood of the line of Durin. It is far removed, but it was apparently enough to open this door as he walked near it.”

The king frowned, but said nothing even as he felt Fíli tense beside him. They both knew that not even the ancient be spelled doors of the Longbeards would open at the mere proximity of someone like that. What could possibly be so special about the room beyond? Thorin ducked through the short doorway, one foot kicking aside some scraps of filthy black leather, and held up his torch. Beside him, the king heard Fíli suck in a noisy breath.

“Thorin! Look!”

The blonde toed a pack sitting half empty against the wall amid piles of torn cloth and other remnants, Frodo’s name stitched onto the shoulder strap. It was the very one that Rose Gamgee had made him, and that the hobbit had reported missing several weeks earlier.

“Looks to me like Kíli may have been correct. Our thief was not a part of the army after all. This area has been lived in much too long.”

Bofur gave his king a sad smile as he picked up the pack, looking into it as he spoke.

“Aye,” Fíli answered bitterly. “For all the good it does us. I heard what that Broadbeam said last night.”

Thorin grimaced, wishing he had allowed his anger to reign and throttled that dwarf last night. It had been a patrol leader, reporting to his king, who had the gall to ask how much longer they would waste time and lives searching for one who must already be dead! Instead, the temperamental king had growled something unflattering and walked away, leaving a grim-faced Bofur to explain some realities to the idiot before Thorin did something he would regret later.

Afterwards, the councilor had candidly admitted that he was half tempted to call Dwalin’s attention to what had been said and leave the fool to the armsmaster’s untender mercies, but had settled for berating his fellow Broadbeam harshly, and loudly. Then, with the same fear that had been growing in all of them the longer the prince stayed missing in his eyes, he had asked if Thorin still believed Kíli to be alive. Thorin’s answer now replayed in his head as he watched Frodo sorting through his pack and Fíli poking about the small piles of rags and other garbage throughout the room.

_‘I believe that should Kíli die, somehow Fíli and I would both know it. So long as the Arkenstone continues to pulse with his heartbeat, I will not give up. He is counting upon us, Bofur.’_

“Thorin…”

Dwalin’s summons carried an uncharacteristic note of pain. Turning, the king was surprised to see the warrior part of the way into a little alcove that had gone unnoticed when they first walked in. As he got closer, Thorin could not stop his own moan of anguish. Someone had taken a pile of rocks and converted it into a memorial, melted wax showing where at least one candle had burned in the past.

The possessions scattered there were clearly of dwarrow-make, mostly bits of beads, hair clips, or other small trinkets, like a lock of a child’s downy hair. In the center, however, were three items that had clearly caused Dwalin’s exclamation. Thorin’s fingers trembled as he gently traced the etchings upon a battered silver ear horn, then picked up the coin next to it. On one side was his grandfather’s image, the other holding that of a much younger dwarf, but still recognizable to Thorin as Balin, Under Lore Keeper of Erebor until its fall and then Lore Keeper of Thorin’s Hall in exile. 

It was Balin’s commemoration of lordship, one of seven coins made every time a new dwarf joined the king’s council. One, of course, had been in the possession of Thrór, placed in a carved quartz box lined with velvet that held a copy of all such coins struck during the king’s reign, and lost to Smaug long ago. Balin had carried the next coin struck, the other five being given to close friends or relatives. Thorin and Dwalin both still carried their copies.

Blinking back tears, the king next lifted the third item that had caught his attention after carefully returning Balin’s coin to the exact position it had been in previously. This was a small piece of parchment set into a tiny frame of silver, though the glass that had originally protected the quill and ink drawing must have broken out at some point. One shard still remained, and naturally, Thorin’s finger found it, drawing a drop of blood that smeared on the tarnished silver as his eyes lingered on each of the fourteen miniature sketches, each one done with breathtaking detail. Thirteen dwarrow and one hobbit looked back at him, captured in time for all eternity.

“Ori…”

Fíli breathed as he peered over his uncle’s shoulder, making Thorin smile sadly as he offered the item to his eldest nephew. The blonde prince took it carefully, almost reverently, as if afraid it would crumple at any moment. Thorin realized his mistake a second later as unshed tears sparkled in the corners of the prince’s eyes once more and his hands began to shake, eyes locked on the tiny representation of his brother, complete with cheeky grin. The three royals had been portrayed in the center of the montage, a delicate black line around them made up of their personal sigils woven together and repeated over and over.

“He only got better as time went on.”

Bofur told them, giving Fíli’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Thorin allowed himself to relax as he saw the blonde draw himself back together enough to share the precious item with Frodo and Kifir, who had both crowded close upon hearing the name.  
He wished he had been able to leave his nephew back at camp, but knew that the only way Fíli would have accepted that was if he were not conscious to object, knocked out by one of the healers’ concoctions. Thorin had seriously considered doing just that, but had been advised by both Wyvern and Senata that it would not be wise for Fíli’s mental health. Even now, the prince was dutifully taking a sip out of a water skin filled with diluted valerian root tea, meant to calm his anxiety.

“You don’t suppose one of Balin’s people really survived, do you?”

Nast’s question was hesitant as he accepted the drawing made by his uncle in his turn, gently touching the faces of his kin before setting it carefully back into place. Thorin’s eyes met the younger dwarf’s, seeing the sudden hope lingering there, and hated to be placed in the position of squashing it. While it was entirely possible for one dwarf to have hidden when the colony was wiped out, it was highly doubtful that he still lived so many years later. Thorin hesitated, trying to decide the best way to phrase his answer when the distinctive clatter of metal on stone filled the room. 

Turning, the king raised an eyebrow at Tauriel, who had been poking through a debris pile with the end of her bow. Now, however, she was staring with wide eyes at something on the floor.

“Look!”

Curious to hear such a tone of astonished reverence from an elf, Thorin looked down to catch the unmistakable glitter of torchlight off of mithril as he moved his lantern to light it fully. A few quick swipes to clear the other rags revealed a heavy war ax with a solid mithril blade, a deep blue sapphire imbedded in the pommel.

“Durin’s Ax!”

Dwalin breathed, bending to pull the ancient blade from the filth it had been disguised by. It shown as if newly polished, the blade undoubtedly as sharp as the day it was originally forged by the first Durin to walk these halls. Running his hands over it reverently, as if caressing the soft skin and downy hair of a newborn child, the Warmaster turned the weapon over, giving it a few experimental swings. 

Then, as if suddenly recalling who else was in the room, he old warrior went down on one knee, holding the blade out toward Thorin as he bowed his head. The others in the room went still as they turned to watch, the heavy weight of destiny filling the air. Thorin did not even need to place a hand upon it to know the heft it would have, or that the ancient inscription on the handle had been worn smooth with time, though it was still readable.

_“To Protect and Defend Mahal’s People.”_

The ancient Khuzdul rolled off his tongue as Thorin, Durin VII, accepted his weapon, heedless of the non-Khazad in the room. Smiling, the king could not help but feel as if something long missing had clicked into place as the grip fit his hand perfectly, the blade so light that it could be thrown if he needed. This was a true weapon of the dwarrow! Drawn by the thought, his eyes found the tall Prince of Ithilien, holding it out to the man to inspect.

“You once told me that you thought the blades I bore were some of the finest you had ever seen. Behold now the most ancient craft of my people, made by the hand of Durin himself before your ancestors even walked Middle Earth.”

At Faramir’s hesitant expression, Thorin nodded in encouragement, giving the weapon a tiny shake. As the man’s hand closed on the hilt, a rage filled objection was shouted.

“You dare to allow a non-Khazad to handle Durin’s-“

Therin’s words were cut off by Dwalin’s stern cuff to the back of the boy’s head. Thorin turned, every line of his body displaying his regal heritage as he looked down his nose at the offender.

“You have no right to say anything anymore, child, let alone spout the filth fed to you by agents of the cult. If you cannot be silent, I will have you gagged.”

Therin recoiled as if slapped, head dropping to stare at the floor, but not before Thorin saw the hurt and confusion in the boy’s eyes. His anger was as much at himself as at the young dwarf. Therin was his nephew, he should have spoken with him enough to know of the problem before it had ever come this far, especially after Fíli’s warning of many weeks ago.

“I must go and meet my father. By your leave, Lord Thorin.”

Nast was the first to break the silence, though Fíli continued to glare daggers at his younger brother. Thorin sighed, accepting the ax back from Faramir even as he turned gratefully to the sneaky young dwarf, glad of the distraction.

“Please convey to Nori my apologies. Under any other circumstances, I would be there to greet him and take him to Ori’s remains personally.”

“Mine as well, Nast.”

Fíli was quick to add, finally breaking his stare to attend to his duties, though it was clearly forced. Nast smiled faintly, laying a hand on his friend and prince’s arm.

“I will. In fact, when Father learns of what has happened, I would not be at all surprised if we joined you.”

“Not you.” Thorin told the lad sternly, “Not until you have rested. If Nori should wish it, we would welcome him, but I am sure there are others who could guide him.”

“As you command. Please, keep me apprised if you discover anything about who was here?” Thorin sighed, hating to have to disabuse the faint hope he still saw in Nast’s eyes, but the other dwarf continued before he could. “I know that it won’t be my uncle, but he might be able to tell us more of what happened.”


	29. To Face Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the last clue to the cult leader's identity is given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
> 
> Author's Note: You get two chapters today because I have been home sick. Let me know what you think!

29\. To Face Death

The next time Kíli woke, he knew for certain that he was in serious trouble beyond being a prisoner and attempted sacrifice. His mouth was parched, and his body hot, even with what should be cold stone at his back, a fever rising from one of his many wounds or from his own abilities, it did not truly matter which. Left untreated for much longer, either one was a death sentence as sure as the bite of the vipers that crawled on him. Now, even should he by Mahal’s good graces be rescued, he might still be a dead dwarf, and that thought was deeply disturbing. 

A dwarrow warrior should accept, and even welcome, the possibility of death without flinching, especially one of the fearless sons of Durin, for few of his line ever died in bed, old and toothless. That is what he had heard over and over in the old tales as he grew up, what he saw in the histories he studied as a young adult, and what was expected of him now, as a ruling prince. And he was a total coward and failure, fear having settled next to his heart like an old friend, to expand with every breath, every surge of pain, every faint whisper of sound that turned out to be nothing more than stones creaking or a rat scurrying by to avoid attracting the attention of the vipers settled upon him once more.

Thrice before, he had faced this ultimate nemesis as an adult, and he thankfully retained few memories of any of them. The first time had been the morgul poison on the arrow he was shot with while they were escaping Mirkwood. He recalled most of that event now, at least until watching his uncle and the others leave for the mountain, but after that, there was very little beyond pain and vague glimpses of people. Tauriel had healed him, that he had remembered, finally, but little else. He knew he had been within Erebor at some point, as he could bring to mind a picture of Smaug’s massive pile of gold, but that was usually quickly followed by the gleam of madness in his uncle’s eyes, so he chose not to dwell on it. 

The second time was in the Battle of the Five Armies, where he had actually met his death. Kíli had been told that it happened, and even had it described to him by various others who had been there, but he retained no active memory of it. He was certain, however, that some part of him must recall what happened, even if not consciously; Nightmares that left him jolting awake breathless or jumping at the crash of thunder were proof enough of that. Images of the malice in his foe’s face, or the feel of the blade running through his chest to end his life would make sleep impossible, sometimes for days, but he did not know if it was actual memories tormenting him, or the imaginings of a too active mind that had heard the stories several times.

The third instance was similar, when he had been poisoned by the tip of an arrow scratching him on the way back to Erebor from Minas Tirith. Mostly, he remembered the feeling of alarm at seeing his brother lurch forward, and the pound of the arrow into his own back knocking him against the pony’s neck, then the fighting. He and Fíli had fought back to back, as was their preference when possible, with him loading arrows and firing as fast as he could until forced to defend himself with his sword. 

That type of close combat had not only been physically exhausting, but mentally as well as the archer struggled to ensure his arrows would not take a friend instead of foe. One had shot a cultist about to take his uncle in the back; that, he remembered all too clearly. The fear had left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he had loosed the arrow without even thinking. After that, it had been another blur of alarmed voices, hands, pain, and numbness, only alleviated by the reassuring arms of his brother holding him close.

Now, though… He did not fear dying, he realized. No, it was being alone, with the curses of phantoms haunting his waking and horrors his dreams as his skin grew to feel tight and stretched, as if his insides were too large for his body. He had no idea how long it had been when the goblins and their cult masters returned to check on him just that even their footsteps approaching sounded as loud as thunder to his ears.

They were not pleased that he still lived, gabbering in their ugly tongue for long minutes, leaving Kíli wondering if now would come the time when they simply killed him. Such fears – or hope?- had ended, though, as they began to taunt him in Westron, the tear tracks down his face and the mess he lay in seeming to delight them. Clawed hands forced his jaw open again, pouring in more of the drugged water, which was a blessing, at first. He knew that he should resist, refuse to open his mouth, but some of the euphoria still lingered, and he could not bring himself to care beyond the relief of the water in his mouth.

Starved tissues reveled in the cool draught as he fought to gulp it as fast as he could, not caring that he was complicit in their attempts to drug him further. What did it matter, anyway? The drifting and euphoria were not that bad when compared with his reality, though he could wish for an end to the hallucinations. Instead, he began to weep in sheer relief, which made the brutes laugh all the harder, jeering as their hands poked and prodded at him, getting close enough to his face to feel their hot breath though he could not see them.

“Are you in pain, little dwarf? Good!”

“Perhaps he is too cold for the vipers to find him tasty. Give him more, make his blood boil!”

“Look at this, boys! He’s wetting himself!”

Kili’s face burned with shame at that, even as he felt himself beginning to drift off again. He had not even felt his body give in to the need! Was the scar tissue on his back swelling again, stealing away what little command of his lower body he yet retained? He welcomed the pull of unconsciousness.

“Make him do it again!”

Goblins and orcs were past masters at turning even a seemingly small kindness into further torment, and were not about to allow him to ruin their fun, however. Hands slapped at his face, forcing him back to consciousness, then they continued to force liquid down him until well past the point where every swallow was a painfully hard lump. Inevitably, he choked, vomiting up much of what he had just taken in, but he was not allowed to suffocate on it. A hand forced his head to the side as a filthy clawed finger intruded into his mouth, sweeping out any debris left behind, which only served to make him gag harder. Evidently, they had no intentions of allowing him such a quick release from his suffering.

“Enough.”

It was the same voice that had taunted him, though this time it was a velvety rumble, rich with satisfaction, with impatience giving it just a hint of a rough edge. It reminded Kíli so strongly of Thorin at that instant that he could not stop the renewed tears that tracked down his cheeks.

“Leave us.”

He felt the others move away, heard the soft scratch of the claws upon rock as it sent a shudder through him.

“You will die soon, little prince.” There was a faint note of regret in the tone, as if the other were a child who did not understand why a broken toy had to be discarded. “Naked, forgotten, and alone. Your body will be a feast for the scavengers, your soul wandering far from Mahal’s Forge. There will be no grand procession or royal tomb this time, no Arkenstone to alter your fate. Does this terrify you? It should.”

The other could not know how truthfully he spoke. Could not know of the nights that Kíli jolted awake sobbing, stifling the screams at the nothingness as he contemplated the terrifying truth that one day, he must cease to be, all that he had been gone forever. 

He had stayed up for days, once, as a child, hiding his sleeplessness from his mother, father, uncle and brother after his first terrible encounter with that harsh reality, only stopped by his body’s inability to function in such a state any longer. Kíli could no longer even remember why he had started it, just that it had something to do with a rock engraved with the sigil of the House of Durin and a tiny, cold body cradled in his arms.

A hand roughly grabbing him by the hair yet again broke him from his latest wit wanderings. A mouth was close to his ear, breath tickling as the other whispered.

“Die, child. Die as you should have long ago, unwanted; the extra, unneeded spare, valued only for the life you can put between danger and the true heir.”

A steel toed boot dug him hard in the ribs as his head was dropped to slam once more into the unforgiving rock. Hours began to blur after that, as the renewed drug bore him once more to that undefinable place between dream and reality, where he happily became one with the rock, ignoring the indignities being suffered by the flesh. Convulsions irritated the serpents that had sought his warmth once more and trolls leered as they tied him in a sack, discussing cooking tips with a red-eyed hobbit. Elves leered at him through bars only to be chased away by fiery stars, then consumed by the gaping maw of a dragon. Voices, so many voices, boots echoing on stone far away, moving, searching…

Wrong way, wrong way, wrong, wrong!

A crack, a bit of crumbling masonry, so close to falling, to getting their attention-

He felt the stone, was the stone, pushed…

The pain was worth it, all the agony of the rock tearing away from its anchor of countless centuries. A bit of debris hitting the floor, a bridge falling to block the path below, such a little thing! His body was on fire with the power, ripping at him as he poured all that his weakened form had left to give into the stone. He never felt the cracks of the clay around his hand, nor heard the hiss of dismay as a few bands of multi-colored light managed to peek out, like a beacon signaling the far off army to the rescue.

Instead, the fever consumed him as so many came to see the dying prince, hissing out accusations or offering false comfort to the burning body wracked by pain, ghosts who dissolved into the darkness that Kíli could not penetrate. Balin, Gandalf, Bifur, Ori, Óin, even Fíli and Thorin. So many times, he allowed a part of him to believe that the sounds and faces were real, only to lay helpless as they vanished. How long would this torment continue before he finally knew peace? Hands on him, pulling, lifting, more pain, more blood, why could they not leave him alone? Why give the false comfort of wool, wet and cooling, wrapping his tormented and broken body? He blacked out, and knew no more for a very long time.


	30. To Dungeons Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the search continues and a familiar face joins the group.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

30\. To Dungeons Deep

Thorin flinched as a crash sounded from just in front of him, where he and the others had been about to exit the ancient tomb and head back to the path of the troll to resume searching. It was as well that Nast had left several minutes prior, or he might have been caught in whatever had just given way, reminding the king once again how dangerous this could be without Kíli. Beside him, Fíli lifted his lantern to illuminate the multi-level crossing area, beam easily showing where the bridge directly above them had given way, dropping debris to block their path. They could try to clamber over it, but it was risky; treacherous footing and loose rock could too easily send them falling into the abyss.

“Uncle…”

The king nodded, waving the others back into the room housing Durin II’s tomb. He had not liked the smell or feel of the other direction out of it, leading them deeper into the catacombs, but there was no longer a choice. Beside him, Fíli fished the Arkenstone out of the pouch at his waist to check on it, as he did whenever they paused, only to blanch. The pulsing light was slower and the colors faded, washing out. They could only speculate, but his nephew was certain that it meant that his brother was fading.

Thorin dreaded the moment that it became simply a dull lump of stone; yet in a way, he also had to wonder if it would be a blessing at this point. He had seen the havoc wreaked by the power coursing through Kili’s body time and again, noted with dread how remote and cold the young dwarf could become as he subsumed himself in the rock. How much longer would it be before the core of ‘Kíli’ was lost and they were left with nothing more than an animate statue?

The small group turned, making their way past the heavy stone tombs adorned with carvings depicting events in the lives of those within. Each room down here would hold another such monarch and those closest to him, mostly family, a place few would willingly visit, even dwarrow. Long ago, powerful spells of protection had been laid on these tombs, affecting any who entered who were not dwarrow. Proof that the spells were still effective lay in the pristine, unspoiled state of the place. 

It also made it much more likely that their unknown thief really was a dwarf from Balin’s colony. What better place to hide than where it was known those with the taint of Mordor in their blood would not dare to tread? It was also why Thorin had planned to use them as a safe, albeit uncomfortable, retreat for the search teams venturing into the orc and troll tunnels.

From the corner of his eye, the king could see that even the elves, Faramir and Frodo were shifting nervously, glancing around as if they wished to be anywhere but where they currently were. Well, they would soon be at the far end, leading downward to where Kíli had believed the catacombs intersected with natural caverns. Hopefully, those would include a way up to the exit that the troll had used, on the other side of the fallen bridge. Otherwise, they would have to continue to the west until they found the path leading to the Endless Stair and find a way out from there.

“Stop!”

Thorin’s arm halted both Dwalin and Fíli as his eyes hooked on faint marks on the stone floor. Dust had gathered thickly here, and it aided them now, allowing the passage of someone to be clearly seen. Unfortunately, the stone did not preserve more sign than that, so it was impossible to tell what race had made the footprints. They only knew that it had been none of their own patrol, as none had reported venturing this deep.

“It could be another trap.”

Predictably, it was Dwalin who gave the warning.

“Or it could lead to Kíli!”

Fíli objected, the strain of his emotions putting unusual heat into his tone.

“Whichever it is, this is the only way down. Stay alert and together, no matter what.”

Thorin’s words put an abrupt end to the incipient argument.

It was a tense trip, hands clenching weapons at every stray sound or skitter of loose rock down the corridor. This area was clearly not made for the living, with small rooms, dead ends, and illogical double backs as each generation had added space for their royals. Thorin recognized several of the statues that they passed, but was careful not to allow the memories to hold sway over his mind. A moment’s lapse now could cost too many lives. Not to mention amuse Dwalin when he walked into a wall he did not recall being there! 

As it was, the path twisted and turned randomly. Had they not been led by dwarrow, with their innate sense of direction underground, the group would soon have been hopelessly lost. As lost as he had been on a moonlit night walking through the gentle rolling hills of the Shire, Thorin thought, catching an amused quirk of Dwalin’s lips at Frodo’s frustrated curse. The hobbit had been using one of his recovered sketch pads to try to create a map as they walked, but it was obviously not going so well.

There did not seem to be an easily discernable end to the tombs other than the sudden absence of burial vaults, as if the chambers had long been prepared for occupants that never came. Thorin was certain that they had now circled back around beneath the southeast section of the city, water having bored natural passages through the limestone. It was clear, though, that other hands had also aided the process, as some areas were strewn with rough cut boulders. Bofur made a sound of disgust as he surveyed one of the huge waste pieces.

“No dwarrow would be so sloppy, even an Ironfist!”

“Orcs are hardly craft masters, Bofur.”

Einarr told the Broadbeam, rolling his eyes at him.

“Yes…” Frodo’s tone was thoughtful, attention locked on the boulder so that he did not note the king’s concern. “Sam and I saw many such crude examples in Mordor. I remember thinking how offended Gimli would have been, like a hobbit who encounters a careless, haphazardly thrown together dinner. The air has a familiar taint to it, as well.”

Now that the hobbit had drawn his attention to it, Thorin had to admit he was right. The air was heavy and musty, but there was an occasional whiff of something else that made his gut twist in discomfort. Coppery blood and rotting flesh! Much as he would like to rush ahead, fearing the worst, he knew they had to proceed with caution. There were foul things that lived in places where the smell of death lingered so strongly, and they would not take kindly to intruders. It was a sullen, quiet group that slowly moved forward, lanterns heavily shielded to avoid giving away their presence to an enemy. 

A splash made Thorin glance down with his own muttered oath, Fíli making a noise of disgust next to him. The king had been so caught up in his musings that he had not watched where he walked, stepping into a stagnant pool of foul smelling water that had not only soaked his own boots, but splashed onto his nephew as well. Thorin sighed, knowing from long experience that his feet would soon feel like two blocks of ice. Nearby, a rodent scurried away from his lantern light, chattering its discontent at the invasion.

Twice, they had to make choices as to which path they would follow, and the king choose by which bore the heavier stink, praying he was correct. Time seemed to drag as every foot fall echoed off the stone like a thunder clap, and each drip of water caused hands to tighten on weapons held to the ready. The dim light was making every shadow and malformed rock seem menacing, a tension that grated on the nerves and exhausted the body. Even Legolas and Tauriel had begun to flinch! Thorin was about to call a short halt when the silence was broken.

“Stay still!”

Dwalin’s harsh whisper stopped the king in his tracks, swallowing hard when a swing of the lantern still in his hand gave a glimpse of a large coiled body directly in front of him. Had the warrior not warned him, he might have stepped on the thing! He made a move as if to edge backward, but the rock viper hissed, and Thorin tensed, preparing himself to feel the strike of fangs entering his leg. Before he could decide what to do, someone’s hand grabbed the back of his collar.

“Ready.”

Fíli’s words were barely a stir of sound as the king willed himself to slow his too fast heart. Panicking would aid no one, and neither would barking at his nephew, no matter how he wished the fool had been pushed safely to the back of the group. The king caught movement out of the corner of his eye, but he dared not turn his attention from the serpent to discover who else would be so bold. He would not ask that another’s life be traded for his! Sweat made Orcrist’s hilt slick as he tried to gauge when his foe would strike. If he could but bring the blade around in time… Before he could bring voice to the thought, however, another’s rang out.

“Go!”

The bark was accompanied by a swift jerk, pulling Thorin backward to tumble onto someone else as steel sparked against rock. Whoever he landed on gasped in pain as everyone froze for a second, waiting, harsh breathing the only sound. What had just happened? He did not feel as if he had been struck…

“Clear!”

Dwalin’s deep rumble immediately had the king rolling to one side, then upright with the help of Bofur, still breathing heavily from his close escape. He had been certain that no one could be fast enough to stop a viper’s strike! He was about to interrogate his rescuers on that very fact when he realized that the one he had landed on did not immediately move to also climb to their feet. Thorin dropped his gaze in alarm, newly unshielded lights falling upon golden hair, as he had feared.

“Fíli! Where is our healer?”

Thorin knelt by his nephew, eyes running over his torso, searching for any sign of a new wound. The prince shook his head, one hand grasping his uncle’s as he struggled to pull air into his chest.

“NO! F-fine… I’m fine. Knocked… breath out.”

Fíli batted away the hands that moved to aid him in sitting up impatiently, earning a scathing look and a firm “Stay put a minute!” from Senata. Thorin stood reluctantly and allowed the healer to look Fíli over quickly, assessing his nephew’s condition in his own way. The answers to Senata’s questions were still staccato, but strong enough to be heard, and the pained grimace could be previously bruised muscles protesting another assault. Or Fíli’s already strained ribs could have given way under the weight of his uncle’s body and armor.

“If you are injured further…”

The king trailed off, purposefully not extending a hand to aid the younger dwarf to his feet so that he could watch how the prince moved on his own, noting Senata followed suit. Fíli flashed them both an exasperated scowl, clambering to his feet with a minimum of grimaces.

“Just more bruises, Thorin, I promise.”

The king was not certain he believed that, but Fíli stood sturdy on his feet with no further sign of discomfort, so there was little else he could say right now. There was no way that the prince would consent to being poked and prodded further in the middle of the corridor, delaying their search. Senata threw up her hands in annoyance, stalking away to collect her pack when Thorin gave a discrete shake of the head, ordering her to let the prince be. Instead, the king returned his attention to the creature that had started the whole mess. 

Uncoiled, the dead rock viper was the largest such Thorin had ever seen, probably surpassing the tall Prince of Men were Faramir to lay next to it. Fortunately for the dwarrow king, its tail had been neatly pinned to the floor by an elven dagger and its head taken off by a dwarrow ax, or it almost certainly would have driven fangs right through the leather protecting his legs. Legolas wrenched his dagger free of the rock with a grunt, lips pursed at the damage done to the blade.

“Vipers lurk in death’s shadow.”

Someone in the group softly voiced the ancient dwarrow warning as others shifted restlessly, eyes darting to peer into every shadow, as if awaiting the arrival of more of the cursed serpents at any moment.

“Unfortunately, it also means that we’re likely on the right path.” Einarr elbowed his way forward to nudge the dead thing with his toe. “Well fed, too. That’s not good.”

“What do you mean?”

Dwalin huffed, a dagger gleaming in his hand as the warrior deliberately stepped between the Blacklock and his king. Einarr huffed in exasperation before taking an exaggerated step to the side and around the other.

“If I had wanted to harm your king or prince, I would have done so by now, you fool. I’m trying to help, but I can’t do that if I’m to be tripping over you every time I’m to turn around!”

Thorin frowned, but gave his friend one short nod, leading Dwalin to take a single, and exceedingly grudging, step back. An irrelevant observation that the eastern dwarf shared some of the odd turn of phrase Frey had momentarily distracted him as Einarr rolled his eyes.

“Really!” The Blacklock snapped, then returned his attention to the king and prince. “Some Blacklocks did openly practice the cult rituals, backed by Mordor, and we were not strong enough to drive them out as we should have. That doesn’t mean that every Blacklock is a traitor, are we clear on that?”

From the expression Dwalin had, he wanted to dispute that, but settled for impatience, instead.

“Ya going to waste our time jabbering, or tell us something helpful?”

“It’s one of the rituals worshiping Sauron, a blood sacrifice. The prisoner is left to bleed slowly to death so that Sauron could revel in his pain. The vipers always lurk nearby because they know they will have a meal soon. Unfortunately, the higher in rank the prisoner is, the more powerful they believe the sacrifice to be, so they will be more likely to hold the ritual instead of keeping him for other… amusements. We must follow the path of the serpents. Look.”

Raising his lantern, Einarr gestured at the trails left by serpentine bodies making their way across the wet limestone floor.

“Ya want us to follow the creatures? When Thorin was almost bit just walking the path?”

Bofur made clear the idiocy of that idea with his tone, but one of the others made a rude noise in his throat.

“You northerners have become soft, living where it’s too cold for the things. Give me a lantern.”

At Thorin’s nod, Fíli passed over the requested item, which the gruff dwarf, a Stiffbeard named Baldur, quickly fastened to the end of his spear. As he watched, the king’s mind was able to supply half a dozen instances where Durin had watched this technique used, he had simply been too focused upon Kíli to think straight. 

Baldur thrust the spear and lantern forward, grunting in satisfaction as a blur struck the shaft just behind the light, splintering the wood. Another elven knife cut through the air to skewer the beast right behind the head, making Dwalin whistle and give the Mirkwood captain a tiny nod of respect. 

“You see?” Einarr rumbled, gesturing at the other to lead the way. “The snakes know that what they seek is behind the light, and so they strike there. Always you are to remember they are Sauron’s creatures, not ordinary snakes who act upon nothing but instinct.”

“Won’t your spear shaft break before long?” 

Frodo asked, staring at the wood with a half-fascinated, half-repulsed expression. Obviously, he and Sam had been lucky enough not to encounter the creatures in their travels through the Black Land. Most likely, Sauron had already summoned his pets to him to accept the offerings of his gathering armies.

“Unlikely.” Baldur shrugged. “It’s made of ironwood. They’ll get a few splinters off it once in a while, but naught else.”

It would be slower going, but safer, the king grudgingly noted as they began to pace forward. Three times more, the pole was struck by a serpent before it retreated from the light or was killed by a thrown blade. The stench also began to lay heavier in the air, the distinct smell of rotting meat. 

Thorin wrinkled his nose, but refused to allow any greater reaction as Kifir began coughing and someone fought off retching with soft strangling noises. They continued on, until, one by one, they were forced to give in, pulling scarfs and handkerchiefs out to tie over their noses and mouths. No one spoke beyond absolute necessity, sucking air noisily through open mouths.

Finally, a doorway came into view as the smell heightened to the point where even Dwalin, Thorin and Einarr were having difficulties. The frame around the opening was black rock not native to Khazad-dûm, crudely shaped into two grotesque serpents with open mouths forming a hole directly over the center of the walkway. None of them moved, uncertain if they could stomach what must lie inside.

“Here.”

Senata whispered, pressing a small green sprig into the king’s hand before passing some to the others. Dwalin refused to take it, receiving a roll of the eyes from the healer.

“It’s mint! To calm your stomach and help with the stench.”

“Chew it, Dwalin.”

The king was quick to cut off further protest from his old friend, knowing the warrior’s intense aversion to all things green. He quickly lifted the cloth covering his nose and mouth to place his own piece in his mouth, sighing as a burst of flavor overwhelmed the rotten smell. Muffled murmurs told him the others where finding it just as refreshing.

“Thorin!” 

The hale from down the hallway was soft, but penetrating, making the group turn as a lone dwarf hurried toward them, his own dim lantern swaying on the shaft of a familiar iron bound staff.

“Nori! You should not have come alone!”

The dwarf snorted, straightening as he accepted the hand clasp of his king and then his prince in welcome. Nori had changed little from the time of the quest, save that his hair was now almost all white, making his hairstyle all the more startling to those not used to his ways. The only sign of his prosperity and high station was the finer quality of his clothing evident even now, in traveling leathers partially covered by light, flexible armor.

“I had a much better chance alone then with any of that lead-footed bunch! Sounded like a herd of oliphaunts wherever they went, the lot of them! Nast stayed behind to get some rest.”

“Nice to know at least one of you will follow your king’s commands.”

Thorin quipped, not truly angry. He had long known and approved of where Nori’s loyalties lay.

“And ruin my reputation, Thorin? Besides, it’s not your image on my Lord’s Coin.”

No, that honor belonged to the princes of Erebor, one of whom was still missing as the other shouldered his way forward.

“But what are you doing here?”

Fíli demanded sharply, handing his spymaster a water skin.

“Joining you.” 

Nori retorted in a tone that made clear he thought such a thing was obvious. Then, in a single instant, his hand blurred as a dagger flew through the air above Fíli’s head to skewer the serpent that had tried to strike from its hiding place within the stone mouths.

“Wasn’t hard to work out another way around the debris, then follow the trail of dead snakes.” Nori wrenched the wicked, curved dagger loose and kicked the body to one side. “I need to speak with you two, along with Bofur and Dwalin, urgently and privately.”

“I do not know how much privacy we dare to afford you here, Master Dwarf, but we will do our best. Come.”

Legolas beckoned to the others in their group, drawing them down the hall slightly, where the air was better, if Thorin was reading Frodo’s sigh of relief correctly. Nori, unsurprisingly, did not seem affected by the putrid smell, but was as tense as Thorin ever remembered seeing him.

“What is it, my friend?”

He asked softly, taking the lead since Fíli was distractedly still darting glances at the doorway they had been about to enter.

“Nast told me what has been occurring, and Thorin… The body in the Chamber of Records isn’t Ori’s.”


	31. The Lost One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the search continues...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

31\. The Lost One

“Not-“ Bofur bit off his words, swallowing hard. “Are you certain? Maybe the remains were simply mixed up.”

“I checked all of them, Bofur. None are him. Ori broke his arm when little more than a baby. It would have left a permanent mark on the bone where it healed, easily distinguishable.”

That was true enough, Thorin knew. Very few dwarrow broke bones, even in childhood, as their skeletons were so heavy.

“You believe that our mystery thief might actually be Ori?”

The king raised a skeptical eyebrow at the other dwarf, earning a huff of annoyance in return.

“All I know is that Balin told Dori and me that he would send Ori into hiding if anything were to go wrong. He wouldn’t tell us what he feared, only that he had instructed my brother as to the safest places within the city, and that if the worst occurred, we were to come for him. Only when the colony stopped sending word, Dain refused to allow anyone to go.”

“Aye,” Dwalin broke in darkly, “I asked him, too. He flat out refused to say what he feared, only that I was to stay in Erebor, and close to Dain. Our dear cousin then forbid me from setting foot out the gate, said Balin most likely judged the lands between here and Erebor as too dangerous to send a messenger! Had I the slightest hint my thickheaded brother suspected the cult-“

“You most likely would have died, too!” Fíli snapped, blue eyes flashing an icy warning. “Which is exactly what will happen to my brother if we continue to stand around talking instead of finding him!”

Twisting, Thorin was quick to put a hand on Fíli’s chest, stopping any attempt to enter.

“Not you. Bofur, Frodo, Kifir! Stay with Fíli out here!”

The prince’s eyes flashed angrily once again as he tried to push the king’s arm aside.

“Kíli might be in there!”

A fast sidestep, however, placed Thorin’s entire body between his nephew and the doorway. This was one fight that the king had no intention of losing.

“That is exactly why I don’t want you going in. Stay here and help keep watch. Please, Fíli.”

Perhaps it was the rarity of Thorin Oakenshield using the word ‘please’, but the blonde nodded, reluctantly taking a single step back. Bofur instantly slung a brotherly arm around his prince’s shoulders, drawing him a bit further away. This allowed Thorin just enough room to shoot out a hand and grab his other nephew in a much harsher grip.

“No, you go in. Now.” 

With a push, Thorin sent the pale Therin ahead of him through the monstrous doorway, right on the heels of those bearing the lantern poles. He had seen a victim of stone vipers once before, long ago as the ragtag groups of refugees travelled through Dunland. The serpent’s bite had literally begun to dissolve the flesh around the wound, blood pouring out. It had been enough to make a hardened warrior feel faint, so it was not surprising that the boy immediately hit his knees, heaving. It did not help that Thorin had forgotten to account for the effects of time and the rats, as well.

The sight was truly horrific, and one that the king wished he did not have to subject anyone to, let alone his own blood, but he also knew that this might be the only way that Therin would fully understand the consequences of his actions. Much as Thorin had been forced to grow up in the space of a few hours as the dragon took his home and kin, so must Therin face a brutal rite of passage if there was to be any hope of salvaging a prince from this disaster.

More than one of the other warriors were also clearly fighting rising nausea once more. Tauriel returned out to the corridor and Fíli after a whispered word from a pale, grim Legolas, who was actually kneeling next to one of the corpses.

“None of these could possibly be Kíli. They are a week or more old.”

There was more than one whispered prayer to Mahal at that, even though it meant that they had found the rest of the missing patrol. At least the fact that they no longer had heads made them barely recognizable as formerly dwarrow, easing the sight a little. Silence fell then, only to be broken by the soft whisper of stone moving coming from the far corner of the room. Dwalin instantly swung his lantern around, aiming the light just in time for them to catch sight of a short figure standing there. There was an undignified squawk, and the intruder turned to run before Thorin could see more than filth and rags with wide, startled eyes shining. No goblin Thorin had ever encountered moved like that, either.

“Follow him!”

The king barked, and somehow Legolas was able to cross the space quickly enough to prevent the crude door from swinging shut behind the fleeing figure. Their missing members were into the room at the yell, those closer to the hidden door leading the way as Thorin hauled Therin to his feet and thrust him after them. 

This corridor was narrow and winding, branching off several times, but a scrap of cloth disappearing around a corner or the sound of fleeing footsteps always led them on. Finally, they stumbled out into what looked to be a natural cave once again, but that had clearly been modified. It contained only one exit, but there was no sign of their query. Two columns bracketed a doorway shaped like a giant viper’s head, its mouth gaping open to swallow those entering. On either side, in front of the columns, were statues, twisted and sneering in hatred at those foolish enough to dare their gaze.

They were not recognizable as any creature upon Middle Earth that Thorin was familiar with; orc faces sneered from heads topped with bat ears, and massive wings curved out from their backs, jagged claws held at the ready. Unlike the previous carvings by the cult, these also looked as if they were ready to come alive at any moment, leaping upon those foolish enough to dare passing beneath their watchful gaze. Thorin stopped dead, finding himself literally unable to force his feet to take another step forward.

“We lost him!”

Bofur’s lament came from behind, breaking the stillness of the room and making Thorin flinch, but the creatures did not move from their spots as eternal sentinels. Within the king, a war raged as he told himself that it was the height of stupidity to fear stone even as something deep within screamed a silent warning, memories was more fighting to pull him from the present. These things were a danger beyond any he had previously encountered, striking fear even into the soul of Durin.

It was Frodo who finally broke through the king’s paralysis, a whisper almost in his ear forcing Thorin’s attention fully to the present. He started to put out an arm to block the hobbit from attempting to move past him when Frodo’s words made the king catch his breath in sudden hope.

“I remember these…” The hobbit swallowed, face pale as his eyes remained fixed on the stone creatures. “I remember something like these… after Sam rescued me from the tower. Guardians of the gates. I know how to break their spell!”

Fishing in his cloak, Frodo withdrew a delicate glass vile that seemed to shine with its own inner light. Holding it up, the hobbit stepped forward fearlessly, Thorin edging after though every footfall was harder than the last.

“Elbereth! In the name of Elbereth, let us pass!”

There was a scream unlike anything Thorin had ever heard, doubling him over as he clutched at his head, desperate to stop the torment. Tears blurred his vision, but he was able to see the others doing the same as he staggered, trying to force his way to Fíli’s side. The prince looked to be on the verge of collapse when Thorin grabbed him, physically wrapping himself around his ailing nephew though he doubted it would do much good. The elves were both already on the floor, unmoving. 

Someone staggered into him and Faramir’s face was thrust into his, lips moving urgently though the king could not hear him. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the involuntary tears from his eyes long enough to read the prince’s lips, but the only word he caught was ‘door.’ Then the sound of a tremendous double explosion filled the room, sending those remaining on their feet to the floor.

Fíli and Thorin went down together, the younger dwarf still beneath him, as flying rock ricocheted around them, several pieces bouncing forcefully off the back of Thorin’s armor. He grunted under the impact, arms shaking as he fought to keep himself on his hands and knees so as not to crush his nephew’s already damaged ribs. It took several minutes of silence before any of the forms huddled on the floor stirred, forcing themselves to their feet.

“Everyone in one piece?”

Dwalin’s words sounded far away and oddly distorted to the king as he and Fíli aided one another to their feet. Looking sternly at the younger dwarf, he gained a hesitant nod, despite a bleeding cut bisecting one blonde eyebrow. Irritably, the prince swiped the blood out of his eye before locking his gaze on his uncle’s arm.

“Thorin!”

The king looked stupidly at the shard of black obsidian sticking straight out of his arm just above the elbow, as if used on the tip of a spear. When had that happened? Grimacing, he took a step back to brace himself against the wall as Senata grabbed at his wounded arm. From under his feet came the distinct crunch of bone, making the king move hastily only to have another one roll under him, threatening to send him to the ground. A raised lamp revealed piles of bone discarded against the walls, making someone moan in despair. 

“Einarr, Baldur, keep watch! That noise might have alerted someone!”

Thorin kept his eyes locked on Dwalin as the other warrior began to poke through one of the piles with his ax, steadfastly ignoring the healer next to him.

“Men, dwarrow, this one is a goblin.” 

Dwalin held up a bone before pitching it away in disgust, lifting a skull next. Thorin almost missed his next words as the shard of rock came free of his arm with a sickening squelch, the wave of pain making his knees wobble alarmingly.

“Elf, this one; not sure about this…”

It was a remarkably intact skeleton, Thorin noted, and showed the obvious marks of having been chewed on by rats. Faramir knelt next to Dwalin, picking up a bone to hold it to the light. It was carved and colored in black and dark red, strange symbols standing out despite the abuse it had suffered. The man snorted, as if some theory of his had been confirmed.

“Southerner, probably from beyond Harad. They wear these bones through their nose as decoration.”

“How do you know it belonged to him?”

Thorin found himself asking, latching onto the words of the man as a way to ignore the needle putting yet more stitches into his flesh. 

“See the slope of the forehead, where the skull has been flattened?” The tall prince picked up the item, turning it in gloved hands to point out what he meant. “They tie their babies’ heads between two boards to force the forehead back like that. It’s supposed to be a mark of beauty and the Dark Lord’s favor.”

“How could anyone due such a thing to a child?”

Frodo asked, staring at the skull in horrified fascination. The glass vile that had broken the power of the statues was still held loosely in one hand, forgotten. Faramir stood, dusting off his knees after setting down the skull.

“It is a harsh land, my friend. Long has it been dominated by Mordor.”

“Oiy!” 

Bofur’s yell jerked them all around to see a figure in rags in the doorway, staring wide-eyed at the crumbled statues. A long piece of fabric wound over the nose and mouth, then around the head, hiding any other facial features. The stranger had now moved to stare at Bofur, one hand starting to come up, but whether to touch the dwarf or to pull away his hood, they would never know. Fíli pushed forward from where he and Thorin were shielded by the sturdy forms of Dwalin and Einarr. The figure started, some indefinable emotion flickering in his eyes as he stared at the blonde prince, body tensed as if to run.

“Please…” Fíli kept his voice gentle as he held out empty hands towards their visitor. “I won’t hurt you. I only seek help. My brother was taken by the cult-“

Nori’s hand landed on the blonde’s shoulder, squeezing gently as he moved his prince to one side, facing the other squarely.

“Ori.”


	32. Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the leader of the cult is revealed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
> 
> Here is the one you've all been waiting for!

32\. Brothers

“Ori, it’s me… Nori.”

The older dwarf spoke softly, soothing, as if to a skittish animal as the others held their breath, afraid to move lest they scare the intruder off. Whatever reaction Nori anticipated, Thorin was certain it was not the one he received.

“Nooo…”

The moan was a long, drawn out sigh of heart-wrenching, utter devastation; the sound of someone whose entire world had just crumbled around them. Tears glistened in large hazel eyes as one filthy hand reached up only to stop inches from Nori’s face.

“Nori…” It was a bare whisper, and the final confirmation Thorin needed that the spymaster’s suspicions as to the baggy figure’s identity had been correct. “Y-you cannot be dead. No, no, no…”

The hood came loose as the scribe shook his head frantically with every repetition of the denial, matted hair tumbling free, barely discernable as red-brown under the grease and filth. So, Ori had gone through with the plan Balin had mentioned to Ori’s older brothers, even though his leader was dead. The skeleton in the Chamber of Records must have been another dwarf given the task of wearing the armor of the scribe to fool the cult with the same trick they had used to kill Kíli outside Erebor!

“Is that what you think?”

There was a depth of pain to Nori’s muttered answer that Thorin had rarely heard from the normally cool, aloof former thief, though if anyone were to evoke it… Then Nori let out a forced chuckle as he took on a false note of cheer, speaking loudly enough for all to hear.

“Don’t you know by now that Mahal would never permit it? He’d so afraid that I was going to pick his pocket that he would trip over himself to keep an eye on me, then miss his tools when I stole them instead!”

A tiny smile turned up the corners of Ori’s mouth at that, but he still looked as though he meant to run, only to freeze at what must have been a foreign, forgotten sound to him coming from the others. A laugh rippled through the dwarrow around the king, and Nori used the distraction to grab his brother’s wrist. For a second, it seemed that the tactic would work, that the physical contact would be enough to convince the scribe that his brother was actually there. But only for a second.

As Nori pulled his brother to him, Ori exploded into action, limbs flying in every direction as he fought like a wild thing to get loose. Nori managed to grab his other arm, but at that instant, Ori planted a kick on the older dwarf’s shin. The spy gasped, losing his hold for a critical second and allowing the younger dwarf to slip from his grasp. 

Ori’s escape was short-lived, however, because as he turned to dart away again, he found two more opponents in his way. Dwalin and Fíli had used the few moments to take up positions on either side and were ready. Dwalin simply enveloped the little scribe in his muscular arms, easily lifting Ori clear of the floor as Fíli seized kicking legs, leaving their captive with no escape. Ori, of course, had never been one to give up easily, despite his seeming timidity, and began to twist and kick frantically again, hands digging at any part of Dwalin he could reach. The warrior stared at his captive, heavy body simply absorbing the blows with barely a grunt while Fíli was almost knocked on his backside.

“Are you wearin’ my shirt?”

The puzzled question from the large warrior made Thorin pause and blink, trying to make sense of the reference before recalling the ‘misplaced’ pack from their first day inside the old kingdom. Why Dwalin would bring that up now, though… A hint of blue through the rags made Thorin roll his eyes. It seemed they had caught their thief after all.

“Ori! Stop fighting us!”

Fíli yelled, heedless of the nervous glances the group gave at the level of noise they were creating. As if suddenly aware of the identity of the one held his feet, Ori froze, then let out a howl of dismay, struggles redoubling, but focused solely on getting his lower half loose.

“He’s going to have every cultist in the place down on us!”

Einarr snapped, stocky form standing solidly in the narrow opening to the passage they had come from, weapons at the ready. Thorin nodded, though he personally thought that if any were within hearing, they would have already come at a run upon the explosions of their stone guardians. He reached out, seizing Fíli’s shoulder.

“Let him go, Fíli.”

The prince looked dubious, but dropped the struggling scribe’s feet, Dwalin absorbing the impact of the ragged boots against his shins with a grunt. Thorin firmly held off Nori with an arm, putting himself directly in front of the horrified captive, who promptly landed a blow that would have taken the king in the groin if he had not seen it coming and twisted at the last second. One hand reached up and latched onto one of Thorin’s side braids, yanking hard. The king winced.

“That will be enough of that.” He muttered to himself before using his own armored body to trap Ori’s legs between himself and Dwalin as he leaned in, strong hands bracketing the scribe’s face and forcing him to meet Thorin’s gaze. “Ori! Stop this, Now!”  
Whether it was the ingrained obedience to his king, the commanding tone, or plain shock that cut Ori’s struggles short, Thorin neither knew nor cared. The scribe stilled, face going slack in utter astonishment as he stared at the king, then at his own hands in physical contact with the supposedly dead monarch.

“Good.” Ori flinched at Thorin’s softened voice. “Now, if you will release my hair and stay calm, Dwalin will set you down.”

The king was not at all surprised that the only response he received was a single, meek nod. Ori had always seemed to be skittish around him, though whether it was his temperamental nature or his nobility that so bothered the little scribe, he was never sure. Ori certainly seemed to have no problem around Fíli and Kíli. Besides, living in complete isolation for thirty years, with the exception of enemies, and then being confronted by two dwarrow who were supposed to be dead would unnerve anyone.   
Ori released his braid as fast as if it had grown scorching hot, gaping at the king as Dwalin eased him down, though the warrior was careful to keep his hands on his former captive’s shoulders. No one spoke for more than a minute, the air heavy with tension and the scent of death as they awaited Thorin’s lead. He, in turn, was content to allow their newly found dwarf time to get his bearings. Finally, Ori dared to look up at the king.

“You’re real? Alive?”

“I am.” Thorin allowed a small smile, hoping he did not unnerve the other dwarf further with it. “The Arkenstone turned out to be more useful than we thought. It brought us back after Sauron fell.”

Carefully, Thorin unbuckled his vambrace and peeled off the tight leather glove underneath, baring the silvery marks that had been burned into his palm so long ago now. He did not doubt that Ori would have no trouble identifying their meaning. Sure enough, the scribe’s face paled even more, a shaking hand barely grazing the skin with two fingertips.

“Durin!”

Ori breathed, glancing wide-eyed at his brother to receive a confirming nod. The scribe hit his knees in a billowing of rags and dust, head bowed down as his entire body trembled.

_“My Lord Durin, I am yours to command.”_

The Khuzdul rolled off of Ori’s tongue, sounding strange in the current surroundings, but also somehow fitting. Thorin held down a hand, shaking it insistently when Ori did not immediately accept the aid.

“First, you can return to your feet. Second, you can tell us what you know of the cult and its allies here in Khazad-dûm, quickly. We have lingered here too long already.”

Ori staggered a bit as he forced himself up, the king steadying him.

“Their Lord ordered all of them away from here, to attack your search parties and lure them away from-“

The timid dwarf broke off, eyes sliding to Fíli and widening so much Thorin almost believed they would come out of his head.

“Does this mean- Is Kíli alive again, too?”

“Ori!” Thorin allowed himself to be partially moved aside by his oldest nephew as Fíli’s eyes locked on his old friend. “Have you seen Kíli?”

“Y-yes.” The other dwarf was on the edge of tears again, flinching from Fíli’s hand when the prince reached out to him. “I-I’m sorry, Fíli. I thought it was another trick!” There was a desperation and wildness to the scribe’s eyes that was disconcerting to see, reminding Thorin strongly of the madness that had once lingered in his father’s gaze. “My mind has played so many over the years…”

Ori’s head dropped, tears tracking through the dirt on his face as Fíli rested his hands on the scribe’s shoulders, replacing Dwalin. The blonde’s body was tense, muscles rippling as he gently shook the other, and Nori moved as if to intervene. Thorin gave a quick shake of his head, knowing that this had to come out now, when they were relatively safe, rather than later. Fíli had enough control still not to hurt the lad.

“Ori… Was he alive?” The silence stretched and Fíli gave him another shake, trying to duck his head enough to peer into the other’s face. _“Was my brother alive?”_

The gutturals of the Khuzdul language added emphasis to the question. Ori’s answer was only a whisper, but it sounded as loud as a thunder clap in this room of death.

“Y-yes.”

“Can you lead us there?”

This time it was Thorin who had broken in, startling both the younger dwarrow, as if they had forgotten they were not alone. He could feel renewed energy borne of unexpected hope thrumming up and down his body, and it took all his control not to shake the scribe himself as he awaited an answer. To be so close… Ori gave the king one frightened glance, then ducked his head back, nodding.

“Y-yes. But not this way. They watch all the passages they know to lead there. Naragel will not easily give up his prize.”

“Naragel? Here?!”

Einarr whipped around, zeroing in on the scribe with a strange intensity that sent a ripple of unease through the others. Once again, Dwalin put himself between the Blacklock and his goal, one large hand stopping the other dwarf in his tracks.

“What do you know of this?” Thorin was quick to ask.

Einarr drew himself up, glaring over Dwalin’s shoulder at the king, as if daring him to renew the accusations of the Blacklocks mining to the cult’s benefit.

“The one who went by that name was known to all who live in the southern areas. When no more was heard of him after the fall of his dark master, we had hoped he died in the fighting, but if he is here…” 

Einarr shook his head, dark eyes troubled as he met the king’s gaze, a hint of fear there. 

“Walk carefully around that one, Lord Thorin. He is Mordor’s creature, completely and utterly, with no shred of decency or compassion. He would move through the settlements like a plague, devastating any who opposed him, and to those who fell for his foul sorcery, he was even worse. Once the adults able to fight were under his control, they would be made to watch as any who could not were tossed to the wargs for sport so they had no ties to their old life. And not just the old or injured, but children. Children!”

More than one of his listeners muttered and cursed to themselves at that, sickened. To harm a dwarfling in any way was the worst act any dwarf could commit, considered even viler than murder or treason as it struck at the very future of their entire race. To hear of young lives being thrown so blatantly away like waste rock from the mine… It was horrific even to think of such a thing occurring, let alone know that his nephew was in the hands of such a creature. 

“No wonder he has been given such a name!”

Fíli muttered, several others nodding. Senata looked as if she wished to tear the fiend apart slowly and carefully that very instant, and Thorin would be hard pressed not to allow it.

“What does Naragel mean?”

Faramir tripped over a few of the syllables, but it was understandable enough. Legolas sucked in a breath, shocked at the question, while Tauriel glanced around at the dwarrow nervously. Thorin, however, was not so easily offended any longer, especially by one he had named friend.

“It is a foul term in our language; not one easily spoken at any time, nor does it have a direct translation into Westron. The closest I could come would be the color and feel of evil.” 

Thorin glanced around to note the downcast gazes of his companions, and the flushed, horrified one of his youngest nephew. Therin’s eyes were glistening with tears, and he gave his uncle one short, sharp nod. That one was receiving quite the education today that much was certain.

“Come, we cannot linger here longer. Whether their leader awaits us or not is immaterial, I will have Kíli out of his reach tonight. Ori.”

The newly found dwarf swallowed hard, ducking his head and shifting from foot to foot for a moment before nodding.

“There are hidden passages throughout the city. I’ll show you. Only…” The scribe hesitated, eyes still a bit wild whenever his hazel gaze happened to skim across Thorin or Fíli. “Does anyone have a weapon I can use?”

Predictably, it was Fíli who answered, with the first genuine chuckle Thorin had heard from his nephew in days. Apparently it was not only the mood of the king that had lifted with the idea that their missing one might yet be rescued.

“Here. I always have extra weapons, you know that.”

The prince was holding out one of his heavier daggers, but his friend flinched back as if struck, and Fíli’s smile vanished.

“Ori…”

“Why doesn’t Ori use Sting and I’ll take your dagger, Fíli?”

Frodo held out the small blade, which Thorin blinked at, only now realizing the hobbit had been wearing it. Why had he not thought to make sure of their arms before allowing them to leave camp? Had he been so focused on Kíli that even the safety of his own companions was not of concern? He frowned at the hobbit, not happy with the idea of their lightest armed member, barring Therin, of course, was offering to give up his weapon for even poorer armament. At the thought, Thorin put a restraining hand upon Frodo’s wrist.

“No, Frodo, I would rather you keep that. Should any harm befall you because you gave it up, I believe- I know- that I would have Bilbo haunting me for the rest of my days. Not to mention a certain meddlesome wizard reaching across all of Arda to chastise me further.”

Bofur chortled at the king’s dry tone, while Dwalin let out an amused snort, and Nori ducked his head, laughing silently. As inappropriate as the humor might have seemed at that moment, he knew it had been needed. 

“Truly an unbefitting fate for the greatest of the dwarf kings.”

At the lightly mocking words, Thorin sighed. He could have done without the help of a certain elf just now, but he doubted his companions would allow him to strangle the offender.

“Allow me to save us all such risk and give Master Ori this.” 

Legolas smoothly slipped between his shorter companions to offer an elven sword, scabbard, and belt, already shortened for its new bearer. The only sign that Thorin could see of his recent ordeal from the gate’s shrieks was a slight dishevelment to the normally immaculate white-blond hair. Ori stared up at their one-time captor in shock, not moving to take the offered item until his older brother gave him a short nudge in the back.

“Go on, take it. ‘Tis light enough you should have no trouble with it.”

“But… What about-“

Legolas smiled at the objection.

“Do not concern yourself with me, Master Dwarf. I prefer my long knives or bow. I only carried the longer blade because my lady insisted.”

My lady, was it? Thorin noted that development with amusement as Tauriel’s cheeks turned dusky pink. It was about time someone was able to settle the wild elven prince down, and Thranduil’s opinion obviously no longer mattered to the pair. Ori took the offered weapon and slipped it on with his brother’s help, allowing it to ride on his back just as Thorin carried Orcrist. Suddenly drawing himself up, the meek scribe held his head high and met his king’s gaze squarely for the first time, reminding Thorin strongly of the young dwarf who had threatened a dragon at Bilbo’s table long ago.

“This way.”

The path he led them on was so twisted that not even Thorin could keep track of it. They had doused all but one of their lanterns, relying on the naturally better night sight of the dwarrow and Ori’s thirty years of familiarity to bring them safely through the passages. Most were small, making it a tight fit for the two elves and Faramir, but they managed, stealing their way deeper into the uncharted under depths of the ancient city.

“Balin found ancient records buried deep in Erebor’s archives that spoke of a company of dwarves who snuck back into the city after the fall of Durin VI and his son.” Ori’s whisper was a soft caress of sound in the darkness as they walked, the only sound beyond their footfalls. “They sought to take some of the mithril and other treasures from beneath the gaze of the Balrog, and so they built these tunnels slowly, over several decades, hiding their activity in the noise of the trolls, orcs and goblins the creature allowed to settle here. Only one made it back out alive, and without much treasure, but he left descriptions of how to find and open the doors. Óin and I were the only ones Balin told in case there were cult members among the company.”

The scribe ended his speech abruptly, shaking his head and stealing a glance back at Thorin, just behind him, as if to reassure himself that they were really there. Dwarrow tended to withstand isolation better than some races, such as men, but it was bound to have permanent effects they had not yet seen, even as battle had changed his nephews.

“Is it much farther, Ori?”

Fíli’s quiet query floated up from somewhere behind the king. Ori did not pause or even glance back as he answered.

“Not much farther, no. Through here.”

“Did Balin tell you who the cult leader was?”

Thorin’s heart quelled at the question, though his mind demanded he ask it, no matter how much he raged at what he suspected to be true. No, not suspected… Knew. Brothers lay at the heart of this tale. Balin and Dwalin, Ori and Nori, Kíli and Fíli, even Kíli and Therin; the black rock and the vision in the pool had told the tale, it was just whether he would, and could, admit the truth of it to himself. 

The way the leader had known how he would react, known the lay-out of the great city as if he, too, had grown up hearing the ancient tales, the sightings of his father that he had chased throughout the south over the years before the quest, the personal animosity… It all made too much sense for it to be any other, but he still could not give voice to such heartache, even to warn his companions.

The barely seen gleam of dreaded knowledge in the dimness of the lantern as Ori paused at the next hidden door to look at him was all the answer he needed. The king nodded heavily, hand readjusting on his sword hilt as he tried to steal himself for the trial ahead.

The first thing that Thorin noticed as he came through the last cramped passage and out through the stone door was the thin ribbons of rainbow light dancing across the high ceiling of the sacrifice chamber. The second was the naked form of Kíli, covered in dirt and blood, lying still on the floor, each wrist and ankle pulled wide and lashed to a ring of iron set in the floor. The lights were coming from cracks in the rough clay packed around his marked hand. The third was the rock viper that was coiled on his nephew’s shoulder, body puffed up and hissing, with the deadly fangs mere inches from Kili’s face. It was the biggest such creature he had ever seen, and it clearly had no intention of giving up its position. 

Thorin cast a glance around, assessing the angles to see how best to approach the creature. The room they were in was a roughly oval shape, similar to the pupil of an eye, but the stone walls had been cut so rough that the flat surfaces were more octagonal. Shoddy orc work at its best. Somewhere in the darkness, a laugh rang out, hearty and malicious.

 

“Come now, Thorin, surely you knew that I did not intend to give up my prize, even if you somehow slipped past my guards. After all, you taught me to leave nothing to chance.”

A hiss of fire and the crackle of a torch being lit, then a figure appeared from the darkness on the far side of the chamber to their left, tall and majestic in the dark leathers and cloak. One eye was bisected by a nasty scar, the ruin covered by a rough leather patch that looked to have been somehow bolted into the cheek bone itself in a cruel self-disfigurement. Long grey hair still showed a liberal streaking of its original black as a bright blue eye, full of madness, locked with Thorin’s own. The king licked his lips, barely able to murmur the name as he heard a scuffle behind him, no doubt signaling one or more of his companions restraining Fíli.

“Frérin.”


	33. The Darkness of a Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kili is rescued... Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

33\. The Darkness of a Soul

Thorin heard the sharp intake of breath from several of his companions as it became clear who this was. The king shot out his free hand just in time to feel the bulk of Dwalin strain against his hold. His eyes, however, did not leave the figure of the cult leader. 

The face was that of his brother, true, but there was a dead quality to the eyes… Cold. Uncaring. As the one facing him were a stranger, not blood kin. Heart clenching painfully, Thorin shook his head, knowing that he could not dwell upon who this had once been. The Frérin he had known no longer existed.

“Let me at him, Thorin…”

There was pure rage in his shield brother’s voice, and much as Thorin would be inclined to indulge him, now was not the time. He had other priorities. Their foe, meanwhile, was laughing again, sending a chill down his spine. Realizing that Dwalin had stopped struggling, the king fisted his hand around the other’s arm anyway, fingers on the underside of the warrior’s forearm moving in an abbreviated form of Iglishmêk that the two had long worked out for such situations. A tensing of the other’s muscles in deliberate sequence let Thorin know Dwalin had received the message clearly and he let go, allowing the warrior to make a show of defying their opponent.

“Bah!” Dwalin spit to the side, face in a snarl of hatred as he glared across the chamber at his one-time prince. “You were never worth the effort. Runt.”

The warrior turned, catching Fíli in a firm grip before Thorin had to turn his attention away from his brother to do so. Not that it was Frérin, not anymore, for he was lost to them as surely as Durin IV’s son had been. For a moment, the king cursed Radagast’s absence, so typical of a wizard when they were needed, and then told himself that it did not truly matter. Frérin had obviously been given the dark taint when Sauron was gaining strength, and even were such magic able to banish it, his brother would never wish to live with the knowledge of the actions he had taken. No, this one would be settled by death, there could be no other conclusion.

“I am surprised that one did not lose his speech with his hair. His head was always too thick for either one to stay lodged.”

“I did not come to bandy words with a misguided child, Frérin. Let us have my nephew and we will be on our way. This time.”

Thorin deliberately allowed his voice to drip with disdain, knowing it would infuriate the other. Sure enough, the scarred features twisted into a caricature of their father, the curse of the Durin line showing through as rage filled the lone eye. Frérin made a move as if to step forward, then caught himself, making Thorin smile ever so slightly in triumph. 

“Do not goad me, brother, for you have no comprehension of the power I now hold over your pathetic lives. Frankly, I am surprised you cared enough to search for such a weak, un-dwarven creature. Did you know that he was so scared he wet himself? My goblins found it most amusing, and so, were perhaps a bit overzealous in forcing more down his throat. It appears they broke him. Oops.” The tone was anything but sorry, a mocking sneer. “You should leav-“

The twang of a bowstring overrode whatever the cult leader had been about to say and the figure across from them ducked, snarling in pain as the arrow lodged in his arm. Then, as abruptly as he had appeared, Frérin was gone. Thorin glanced over his shoulder at Legolas even as he eyed the snake still intent on barring them from Kíli.

“Where was he?”

“I do not know, it was not my shot. Tauriel?”

“A ledge about forty feet above the main door, just below the ceiling.”

“Smoke and mirrors.” Dwalin growled after following the elf captain’s pointed finger. “That was ever Frérin’s way. Too clever for his own good.”

Thorin bit back the retort that came automatically to his lips at the criticism of the little brother he had once loved dearly, even as some part of him admitted that the warrior’s words were only the truth. Frérin had been cocky, certain that words and tricks could get him out of anything, even when his actions were seen as dishonorable by their grandfather’s court. 

The illusion he had just used, with mirrors along the chamber walls and the polished black stone of the surface opposite them, was all too typical of him. Had they come in the door they should have, they would never have seen the figure hiding high overhead, only the image directly across from them.

How Frérin had railed against the life fate had given him, the younger brother, the spare who was meant to be sword and shield for the elder! It was one reason that Thrain had broken with tradition, allowing Dwalin to continue to train as Thorin’s closest companion instead of allowing Frérin to assume that role, as was customary with siblings born less than thirty years apart. The memories were strong as the youthful voice, so full of confidence, rang out in his head in an argument that was never meant for his ears.

_**Somewhere in the wastelands of the east, three years after the fall of Erebor.** _

_“It is my place, Father, not that of a distant cousin whose muscles outweigh his brain! Thorin doesn’t need strength to defend him, but cunning, why do you deny me that?”_

_Thorin froze outside the tent, hand dropping from where he had been about to part the flap as he heard the frustration and pain in his little brother’s voice. What had happened now? He had warned Frérin to stay clear of their father and allow him to deal with anything that came up! All the two had done lately was fight with one another as Frérin took every order as a personal assault and Thrain fell back on his stubbornness to deal with his younger son, each talking past the other instead of to them._

_“Because you do not understand the world, Frérin, not everything can be bested by clever words and sneak attacks! Until you realize that, you are more of a threat to your brother then his foes! Have you thought of what will happen when one is cleverer than you think and catches you in your lies? It will not be you alone upon whom their anger falls!”_

_“And why should I not approach them thus? All elves and men do is lie and cheat us, you’ve said it yourself! Why should I not meet them at their own game? We are not in Erebor anymore, we cannot deal from strength and trust it will knock over those who are not so honest! You refuse to see what they are doing to us, Father! They threaten our people and all you will do is cling to your honor like lice to a dog until it sucks you dry!”  
The sound of flesh meeting flesh had been horrific in the young prince’s ears, and he tore aside the rough tent flap in time to see Frérin turn from their father, one hand hovering over an already reddening cheek. There had been no more discussion of training that day.  
_  
Frérin had never been one for close combat, preferring distance and stealth to take down his foe, an impossibility in a massive melee such as Thorin knew they went to on the steps of Khazad-dûm. That was why Thorin had argued strenuously against his brother’s inclusion with the army coming here so long ago, and why Frérin had railed against him the night before that final fateful battle, leading them to part with angry words regretted ever since. He had long been his brother’s defender, but when their father had at last relented to the younger’s pleas, their roles had been reversed, Thorin now seen as the threat to Frérin taking his rightful place.

“I cannot deal with… _him_ now, Dwalin. Do not speak of it again. Fíli.” 

“Yes?”

His nephew’s voice answered from almost in his ear, making Thorin start.

“Hold up the Arkenstone, light the room.”

It was the only chance they had of forcing the viper to leave without risking themselves or Kíli further. At least the younger prince still breathed, that much he could see, though it was much too shallow for his liking. Fíli edged next to his uncle, body quivering with suppressed emotion at the sight of his little brother and his inability to go to him. One hand came up, and multi-colored light danced through the room. 

A sharp crack had them all ducking only to realize that the stone clay encapsulating Kili’s marked hand had burst, showing its own colors as the snake on him wreathed in agitation. Smoke poured from its mouth and sensory pits, then a burst of bright flame and the serpent’s body fell limp, shriveled and blackened.

“Kíli! Help me get him loose!”

The blonde had already hit his knees, heedless of blood and other fluids on the floor, his sharpest dagger flicking the dead creature from his brother before sawing at the tight leather bindings. Bofur, Nori and Thorin were quick to move to the other limbs, and the king felt the heat radiating from his younger nephew with grim dismay. The boy was burning up from the inside.

“Hurry, Thorin! He’s doubtless gone to get aid!”

Dwalin’s urgings received nothing more than a black look as Senata joined the older prince, hand hovering over the now clearly distended shoulder.

“Dislocated. I need to replace it before we move him. Someone take the blanket from my pack and soak it in water from the skin in there.”

“I have it.” 

Kifir assured the healer, roughly shoving the pack into Therin’s arms so he could more easily rifle the contents. He pulled the blanket and water container, pouring the latter over the former without heed to slopping. The thin wool soaked up the contents, a hint of a familiar heady herb wafting through the air to remove some of the stink. Kifir and Frodo then spread it out between them, ensuring it was completely soaked before bringing it to where the dwarrowdam knelt. Senata glanced up and gave them a nod before turning back to her work, Tauriel and Legolas beside her as the two others who knew the most of healing within their small company.

“Now!”

It was a firm command, hands holding and manipulating the prince’s injured limb in concert as the three eased the bone past swollen, torn tissues to slide back into its socket. Tauriel pulled a long strip of white linen from her pouch, expertly looping it around the abused wrist and then around Kili’s torso to ensure the arm could not be inadvertently moved. 

Distant shouts sounded through the stone and Thorin risked a glance toward the entrance to see that Dwalin, Einarr, Faramir, and Baldur had been busy piling any loose rock they could find against the door. They needed to leave before goblins began coming down the very walls from Frérin’s perch. As if reading the king’s thoughts, Senata nodded with a tight smile.

“It will have to do for now. Lift him while Tauriel and I wrap the blanket, then we leave.”

The limp, broken body was awkward to pull up, made slippery by sweat and blood, but none of them were about to drop him. Fíli’s low cry of distress matched that of his uncle as they took in the cuts, swollen and red, that littered the body of the brunette prince. Even with the movement, he showed no sign of awareness, head hanging limply over Thorin’s arm. The king allowed himself a moment to press a kiss to the hot forehead as the cool athelas and water soaked blanket was snuggly wrapped, then Dwalin appeared, holding out his arms.

“Let me take him, Thorin.”

Fíli looked rebellious, but a hand on his arm stopped any objection. Far better that their wounded kin be sheltered in strong arms able to run with him if necessary than jostled on a stretcher, and Fíli’s ribs would never withstand the strain of carrying his brother so far. Nor, were Thorin to be honest, would his own wounded arm. Dwalin collected his burden to him with all the delicacy he would have shown had he been handling one of the elaborately painted egg shells the hobbits were so fond of making in the spring.

A shriek from above heralded the arrival of the first of their foes as a deep boom sounded from the door, the stone shaking from the force of whatever was trying to break in. Thorin swept Orcrist around, skewering the goblin who tried to leap from the wall to land on top of him, the other warriors making quick work of the creature’s companions. It was time to go.

“Run! Go! Go!”

Ignoring a twinge of protest from his own bruised ribs, the king twisted around, pushing at Therin and Fíli to move as they fled the chamber with their stolen prize. Ori immediately took the lead, for which Thorin was thankful, knowing the little scribe was their best hope to win out of this maze. Several minutes passed as they ducked and ran through small tunnels and large, pausing only long enough for Ori to fumble at hidden triggers in the dark, all eyes straining for any sign of pursuit. Thorin tripped once, but hands yanked him upright again, and they continued on. All seemed quiet, and he could feel the air losing the heaviness and stink of the cult’s area. As they came to another crossroads, however, Ori stopped dead, staring at the pile of rock blocking the passageway helplessly.

“This isn’t supposed to be- I can’t- We’re trapped!”

A cold lump settled in Thorin’s gut at the scribe’s frantic cries as his eyes strained to pick out details of where they were through the darkness. The cries of their pursuers were audible again, a deep drum beat accompanying them as if coming from the core of the earth itself, warning that none could escape their foul grasp. If they were cut off from the main army now-

“Right, Dwalin!”

The king snapped at the person closest to him without thinking, somehow knowing that the other corridor was a true path. Thankfully, the large warrior did not question it, despite his teasing about his monarch’s less than exceptional directional sense, even here. Another doorway, and they were inside one of the large lower halls, a balcony running along its upper left wall. A shudder ran through the king as a voice whispered that this was where Durin V had died.

“Second left, then stairs!”

Thorin gasped, the directions almost lost in the ring of steel upon steel as Fíli’s twin swords slashed through the air, cutting down the arrow aimed for his uncle. There were archers upon that balcony now, Tauriel’s and Legolas’ bows singing a return song. Another arrow clattered against the stone column by his head, and then he had no more time to concern himself with such distant foes. Blue light flashed to the king’s other side as Sting took down a goblin who had sought to drop on the hobbit from above, and he turned, his own sword slicing easily through a large orc that Therin grappled with barehanded.

“’Ware the ceiling!”

Fíli’s call was acknowledged by the waving of free hands and grunts as two more of the disgusting little creatures were dealt with. A roar of outrage and Dwalin booted an orc in the gut who had somehow gotten in front of them away from his precious cargo, black blood spurting as Einarr’s ax finished the fight. The group surged forward, speed redoubling as they sensed escape slipping from their grasp. 

They darted through the open door and clattered up the stair, Baldur giving a shout as an orc’s hand pulled him down behind them. They had no time to stop or even share the pain of a fallen comrade as a scream marked the end of the valiant Stiffbeard’s life. The group could do naught to forge onward.

“Straight!”

The king called to whoever was leading now, not bothering to try seeing past the screen of bodies that paused a few strides past the top of the short stair. Multiple memories supplied the king with their exact location, warning him that they approached another of the three way splits designed to confuse the intruder. The logical choice, a left hand branch that slanted upward, actually dead-ended in an oubliette with spikes on the bottom, not exactly a pleasant way to die. The right doubled back to where they had just been, also not an option, but the center corridor should lead-

Those ahead of the king stopped in their tracks, piling into one another, as Dwalin’s voice rang out in deep disgust.

“’Tis a dead end! We’re trapped!”


	34. Race for Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin's sense of direction proves better than everyone thought...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

34\. Race for Safety

No sooner had Dwalin’s disgusted voice rung out then the howls and shrieks of their enemies picked up in volume behind them. Goblins and orcs flooded the tunnel, only the arrows of the elves keeping them back for now. Taking in the situation, the dark creatures hooted and stomped their feet in glee, the commotion attracting more of them. They knew that their prey was cornered, jostling to push forward even as another fell to an arrow in the forehead. 

Soon enough, the sheer weight of numbers would turn against the small company, even in this narrow corridor, and they would fall. The one who had once been Frérin would delight in his triumph over them as he claimed the ancient city as his own. It was the thought of that face, twisted with hate and wild glee in the torment of one he should have cherished, which broke through the last of Thorin’s control. The king grit his teeth, vowing to die himself before he allowed those foul creatures to take any more of his kin from him.

His hands tightened on the hilt of his sword as he prepared to charge the foul creatures, fully willing to sacrifice his life if it allowed Dwalin and the others to flee with Kili. Thorin’s muscles were tensed to move when he stopped short, something nagging incessantly at him. Glancing around one more time, his sharp eyes picked out an ancient symbol subtly worked into the rock, indistinguishable from the surrounding stone for all but a dwarf and a thrill of hope made his nerves tingle.

“Move!”

Thorin ordered curtly, shouldering his way to the front, where a solid wall gleamed with threads of silver in the torchlight. Yes, this was exactly as he had thought. Now, all he had to do was find the proper spots before their foes crushed the other defenders against the unyielding barrier. No pressure. Even as he reached for the stone, questions from the others ringing in his ears as loudly as the clang of steel, the memories broke through, no longer held at bay by desperation and stubborn willpower.

_**Second Age, 1697** _

_Durin III stalked carefully through the slumped forms of the elves and dwarrow, peering into dirty, pain-twisted faces as he searched. As time stretched, his stomach knotted more and more. Where was that fool of an elf, anyway? He must be here! Finally, a quiet word to one of the more alert elves who was not being hovered over by a healer produced a nod toward the far side of the small hall. The king wasted no time in stomping over there, but the tall figure he found slumped wearily against the wall was not that of his missing elven friend._

_The stranger was dark haired, and lithe, with the strong build of a warrior and the grace inherent in any of the Noldor Eldar. As if aware of the scrutiny, the elf glanced up, dark eyes assessing his approaching guest as one eyebrow raised, giving him an oddly temperamental look. He made no move to rise, either, though from the blood and dents littering the armor he had already removed, Durin could forgive that. Even the linen tunic he wore underneath looked to be ready for the rag bin. This must be the one Gil-Galad had sent to lead aid to Eregion when it came under attack._

_“Where is Celebrimbor?”_

_Durin choose not to mince words with this one, bluntly demanding as he stood over him, hands on armored hips. The elf shook his head, a hint of anger shining deep in the dark eyes. So this one, at least, had the spirit still to rail against their fate. Good. They would need that anger if they were to survive. Their foe knew them too well._

_“Captured or fallen, I know not which, Durin King. Ost-in-Edhil is in ruins, the realm lost. Only we few survive, and that only because of your warriors holding a secure retreat through the mountains.”_

_The king exhaled hard, the news a body blow to all who valued freedom in Middle Earth. They should have known never to trust that stranger and his seemingly overly generous offers of spell weaving and forging! Around his neck, the ring seemed to weigh on him, pulling at the chain upon which it hung, and Durin bowed his head, knowing what that must mean. Celebrimbor must have been captured and tortured into revealing the hiding places of the Rings of Power by Morgoth’s most powerful lieutenant, showing that one’s true nature in all its cruelty._

_When it had been realized that their benefactor was, in fact, Sauron, Celebrimbor, Durin, and Galadriel had wasted no time in taking steps. The three, which Celebrimbor had forged with only the assistance of the dwarf king, had been sent away into hiding. The seven and the nine, made with Sauron’s aid and not actually as powerful as the three, had presented a more difficult conundrum. They could be influenced too easily by Sauron’s dark will, and through that, their bearers. At least, that had been the theory. Reality had been more interesting._

_Six of the seven and all of the nine had been borne by elves, several of them easily captured by the dark forces in the first weeks of the war. Others had fallen to him in the years since, until he had them all now. Word had come that the nine had been presented to the kings of men, who easily fell to Sauron’s dark purposes. The other six of the seven had been given to the other dwarrow kings, though they had not proven as weak-willed as the men. They had pledged not to side with either army, staying neutral by selling to both to enrich themselves. Durin had tried to warn his fellow kings, but his messages had been dismissed as one too close to the elves, and jealous of any other who threatened to become as wealthy and powerful as he. He feared what would become of them with such fell sorcery upon their fingers._

_Durin’s hand crept toward his breast, and he had to berate himself sternly before it dropped back to his side. The last, most powerful of the seven, Durin himself wore around his neck upon a chain bespelled to fight the will of the dark lord, but it was growing more difficult as the days passed and more of Middle Earth fell under the shadow of Sauron. Celebrimbor had sworn to him that this ring had not been touched by the Deceiver, else he never would have accepted it, but now he had begun to doubt his friend’s honesty. The elf in front of him seemed to read the dwarf king as if he were a newly written scroll, nodding thoughtfully._

_“Captured, then. I must send word to Gil-Galad.”_

_Durin grunted, not offering the other any assistance as he forced his lean body to his feet._

_“Good luck with that! A courier alone, traveling by stealth, may make it through, but I will not ask such a risk of my people. That foul army is even now surging north and Mount Gundabad is under siege. My grandfather did not go to all the trouble of taking it back from those bloody Ironfists just to see it fall into the hands of stinking orcs!”_

_That incident had been before his birth, but the deceit practiced by a fellow dwarrow king still rankled. Durin had deliberately chosen the gaudiest, most elven looking of the seven to send southeast to the new Ironfist king. The elf nodded again, apparently not one for many words, making the king grimace. He tended to ramble when upset or excited, or well, most of the time, really, so this silence was irritating._

_“Well? Aren’t you at least going to tell me your name, master elf? Or has Gil-Galad’s court forgotten even the most base of courtesies? And just what do you intend to do with this bunch now? Do you wish quarters here? Or do you intend to go through the mountains to the Golden Wood?”_

_That would not be his first choice, even though he was friends with many that they walked past, exchanging nods or a hand on a shoulder. So far, Sauron had seemed content to leave the vastness of Khazad-dûm un-assailed save for an influx of those foul serpents of his, and Durin wanted to keep it that way. The knowledge of large numbers of elves taking refuge here would most certainly draw the dark lord’s attention, given the grudge he held against that race._

_“I do not deem our long-term presence here any wiser than you do, Lord Durin, but I am also reluctant to abandon all resistance in Eregion. My scouts have already located a valley that may be easily fortified and hidden from our foe’s sight.” As they approached the map table, several others of both races bowed out of the way, allowing the two leaders privacy. The dark haired elf rifled through several of the maps before drawing one to the top, a slender finger coming to rest upon a spot to the north. “Here.”_

_Bending to peer at the small markings, the dwarf king grunted again, this time in satisfaction._

_“Aye, I can keep a route open to there easily enough. We farm this valley here, and the rock is easily worked, it can create a hidden passage. We can put a back door out onto the plains from your valley, too, as an escape route. The Bruinen is wide open on the front of where you want to settle, though. How are you intending to defend that?”_

_The elf straightened, smiling as his shirt front flapped open where he had removed his armor, giving a glimpse of a chain about his neck with something weighing it down. As he moved, a blue ripple of light seemed to dance about the silver links and Durin’s eyes widened in shocked realization._

_“Leave that to me, Lord Durin. I am Elrond, Herald of Gil-Galad, and I am very pleased to meet you.”_

_**Second Age, 1697, five months later** _

_“Just because we have sealed Khazad-dûm does not guarantee no enemy will win their way in, Father!”_

_Durin III kept a tight rein on his temper, reminding himself firmly that the boy was young yet. Worse, he was at the stage where he assumed those older than he possessed half his wit. Instead, he settled upon an answer rich with sarcasm, which his son may or may not grasp._

_“Do you think your old father so removed from battle and in my dotage that I would not see what a ten year old just beginning his training would?”_

_The other flushed hard, but Durin merely grunted, turning away in disgust._

_“Come and see with your own eyes, maybe you will learn something, dwarfling!”_

_The king clomped away, the heavy tread of steel soles on rock drowning out any protest his one hundred and thirteen year old son might have made to the deliberate insult. It was his own failings that made their relationship so rocky, and the king knew it. He had set his hopes high upon another Durin following him, as he had his grandfather, Durin II, and that had always made his son a disappointment, though he loved the boy dearly._

_The two dwarrow had been standing next to the great stone and metal gates of western Khazad-dûm, made early in his grandfather’s reign, both closed now as they had not been in the almost 1000 years since their forging. Beyond the thick wall, Durin knew, the two holly trees still stood, no longer the symbol of the mighty elven nation that had thrived there, but a forgotten remnant of a newly destroyed past._

_No longer could the great gates stand open, welcoming all, irrespective of race, as they had done since before his childhood, and no longer would the markets of the stone city bustle with the voices of peace and prosperity. Nor would such blessings return soon; perhaps not until well after all who lived here were returned to the stone from which the dwarrow had been made so long ago._

_Durin’s heart was especially heavy at such a thought, for he knew the isolation he had just ordered would diminish them, the sections of the great city falling silent one by one as Durin’s Folk dwindled without exchanges with the other dwarrow clans. Well, except the Ironfists. They could easily do without that bunch!_

_His plans, of course, held the hope of staving off such a fate for years to come, with secret passages even now being built through the mountains to the outside. Whether it would be enough had yet to be seen. His son was naturally walking one of the two familiar paths straight through the great realm from west to east, one passing to the north and ending in the market concourse and the other to the south, through the mining district. The boy stopped dead, inhaling sharply as he gazed at a newly constructed room with confusion._

_“Father, what…?”_

_Where there had once been a continuation of the straight path, three archways were being built, though one only framed a blank wall as of yet. To their left, a crew was busy hewing out the walls of a small guardroom as another on a rope popped his head out of a new stone well. More dwarrow took the waste rock being removed, and were using it to raise the floor of the center hall, which actually led down to the mines._

_“Construction has just begun here. Come!”_

_His son’s mouth snapped closed with an audible click, making Durin grin in satisfaction. Ahead of them, the corridor was abruptly cut off with a solid wall, looking to the naked eye as if it had always been a part of the mountain itself, not recently built. The prince spun in confusion, fingers twitching as he mentally tracked their route._

_“This shouldn’t be here!”_

_The mutter was undoubtedly not directed at the older dwarf, but he answered anyway._

_“No, it shouldn’t. We have blocked Durin’s Way permanently. The northern, lesser, way, will now serve as the main path into and out of the city, while the key to our southern route will be known to a select few, including you and I, trapping invaders well away from anywhere they can do great harm.”_

_“And the northern route? Do you intend to block it, as well?”_

_“Not directly, no. It will be lengthened, and misdirection will be added to slow any invaders. Instead of coming out on the market level, it will angle up to connect with the Hall of Feasts on the uppermost level, a very indirect route into the main city, but it is the most likely path for invaders, so it is better so.”_

_His son scoffed at that, running a hand over the new wall, as if trying to feel out its secrets. Durin let him, knowing there was no way he would succeed._

_“If they breach the gates, surely our enemy will know enough of Khazad-dûm to know the shortest route lies to the south!”_

_“Our foe prefers misdirection to brute force, only employing the latter when the former fails, my son. Should he set his sights upon us, he will first attempt to locate the secret routes from our food valleys, or perhaps the track from Rivendell, not the main gates. All of those exit only onto the northern halls.”_

_“Rivendell?”_

_The king refrained from rolling his eyes as he silently showed his heir the correct trigger points to open the wall._

_“The common name given to that hidden valley the refugees of Eregion are settling. Did you not meet Lord Elrond when he was here earlier this year?”_

_“Aye, but I thought we’d cut off all contact with the elves! It was their folly that brought the Dark Lord down upon us, after all.”_

_Durin made a rude noise deep in his throat, fingers flicking out to snap the younger dwarf on the side of the head as he moved past his sire. As the prince turned, Durin yanked him back, allowing the hidden door to swing closed with them still on the wrong side._

_“Use that lump on your shoulders for once, boy! Without knowledge of what occurs outside these walls, we could sit here and rot long after the danger is past, or be set upon without warning! And what are we to do with all our work other than pile it in treasure rooms as useless junk to be gawked at? Our contacts will be limited, and secret, but we must have them.”_

_The younger dwarf flushed, but fingers found the correct triggers without needing further guidance from his elder, the door starting to move…_

The grinding of long unused gears made Thorin blink, the present reforming around him in time to see the door stutter and then slide up, allowing them passage. Behind them, the goblins howled in anger, surging forward only to be stopped by Nori casting flash flame into the center of the corridor. Blinking away the afterimage, the king grabbed blindly for those nearest, shoving them past wordlessly.

“Go!”

None argued with the spymaster’s order as they piled through the blockade, the elves bending low to fire arrows under the descending door as their pursuers attempted to follow. A dull thud signaled the closing of the heavy stone door, and silence descended, all sound from the other side cut off by the clever dwarrow engineering. Darkness and cool, fresh air bathed a sweat streaked face, and Thorin allowed himself a moment to slump in relief against the wall, knowing that there would be no further pursuit. 

They had made it.

“Kíli?”

Fíli’s anxious voice cut through the darkness as someone unshielded a lantern to fully light the corridor. All eyes turned to the precious burden in Dwalin’s arms, breath held as Senata carefully peeled back the blankets, checking upon the injured prince.

“Alive. I only hope we can keep him that way. Is anyone else injured?”

Headshakes or weary shrugs answered. They were all beat up, tired, and dirty, but none looked to be on the verge of collapse, so anything more could wait until they reached the main camp. As the exhausted, but triumphant group began to make their way back up the levels to the rest of the army, Thorin overheard a short exchange between Ori and Fíli that seemed to him to sum up their latest experience.

“Fíli?”

“Yes, Ori?”

“Is this really real?”

A short laugh, strained, but more natural than anything he had heard from his nephew in days.

“Yes. What makes you think it might not be?”

“Well, every time I join you Durins in a quest, we wind up running through dark tunnels from something after our enemies offer to torture and kill us. I thought maybe it was a nightmare.”

As Frérin’s face flashed through his mind, Thorin did not have the heart to tell him that the greatest nightmare might have just begun.


	35. Another Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Therin mopes and someone pays a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes: First, for those of you who noticed that I stopped the Thursday updates – April and May are the busiest months at my work, with about 20,000 school kids, so please bear with me while I am slower in the updates! 
> 
> Second, this chapter is dedicated to Jessie152 at FFnet, who requested a chapter from Therin’s point of view. Thank you so much for all your thoughtful comments!

35\. Another Perspective

Therin, self-titled Prince of Nowhere, looked up dejectedly from where he sat on the stone floor of his small cell, idly wondering if it was time to eat again. Not that such an event was anything to look forward to, given rabbit food the way he was. It was typical fare for prisoners, a subtle insult to remind them that their actions had made them no better than elves. It was disgusting, insulting, and degrading. Footsteps approaching his corner told him it must be time, and he sighed, heaving himself to his feet to accept the meager offerings through the bars only to find himself facing the stern visage of Vili, son of Fíli the Elder, instead.

“Father!”

He was so shocked that the young dwarf completely forgot that he was not to speak unless spoken to. Neither his father nor the ever present guard rebuked him, though, in many ways making the transgression worse. To have his father see him here, like this… Well, there was only one person Therin could think to have staring through bars at him that would have knotted his gut more.

“Thorin gave permission for me to speak with him.”

Vili addressed the guard, who grunted and moved several steps further away. He then turned his attention back to his wayward son.

“Why, Therin? Why would you do such a thing, and to your own brother? I had hoped your mother and I, and Bilbo, had raised you better than that.”

Therin flushed, ducking his head to avoid seeing the disappointment and rebuke on his parent’s face. Then an even more distressing thought struck him. One hand tried to discretely swipe away the threatening tears.

“Is Mother here, too?”

Heart sinking, he did not need the older dwarf’s nod to know the answer. It was as well his meal had not come; he would have been hard pressed to keep anything down right now, let alone that slop.

“She’s with Kíli.”

Of course she was. It only made sense, as he was the one in danger, still, so why did that make him flush with resentment? Was he truly still that jealous and petty?

“How is he? They won’t tell me anything.”

Tears stung his eyes at that, and he did not bother to wipe them away. He still cared about his brothers, and the not knowing was the worst torment. Sitting alone for so many hours had given him plenty of time to remember all of the good days with his brothers, the kind gestures the two had made, even when he did not deserve their regard. Sparring with Fíli, or giving him background on a particular dwarf that Therin knew but the ‘new’ princes did not; working on his archery skills or walking the mines with Kíli. When had everything gone so wrong that he would willingly hurt his family like this? Kíli had not even looked alive the last he had seen of him, though his chest rose and fell where he lay in Dwalin’s arms!

A swarm of healers had descended upon the rescue party the moment that they set foot in camp, most focusing on Kíli, but a few breaking away to survey the rest of the group for injuries. Among them had been the twin elves that Therin had noted seemed to go about the place as if they had a right to be there, coming and going from Lothlorien to Khazad-dûm at random times.

One of the healers, a rough Firebeard who looked old enough that he might have fought at Anzanulbizar the first time, had at least taken the time to dress the cuts Therin had acquired. He had also delivered a blistering lecture about responsibility to the sullen dwarf before none too gently shoving him back into his cell with an order to alert the guard should he become feverish. Had he not then turned as brusquely to Einarr, Therin might have been even angrier at such treatment.

That had been almost a day ago, most of which Therin had spent dozing as nightmares jolted him awake again and again with images of dwarrow being skinned alive or bitten by vipers, flesh melting from their bodies. It was enough to make a hardened warrior vomit, so Therin had not even been eating what little he was offered. Unsurprisingly, such an avoidance had brought the return of the old goat, and Therin found himself swearing to eat every scrap of his next meal just to get the healer to leave him alone.

“Kíli is alive.” 

His father’s flat statement broke the younger dwarf from his thoughts to retake his seat with a huff, trying to surreptitiously wipe the new sweat from his forehead. Someone might have had the consideration to tell him that!

“Though the healers cannot break the high fever he suffers from. If they can do so, they believe he may yet make a full recovery.”

Therin blinked back the tears that prickled his eyes again, fists clenching at the relief he felt coupled with renewed anger. Was this all it took to reduce him to a sniveling child? How could he have been so stupid? What was it that Bilbo had always told him?

_“Use that head for more than growing hair, me boy!”_

It had always been delivered in a light tone with a wink, one hand affectionately ruffling his hair, but with just a hint of sternness. How he missed his hobbit uncle! At least no one had dared say he was less of a dwarf for the high regard he held Bilbo Baggins in! In fact, several of his contemporaries had been rather jealous themselves at the sight of him ambling through the market with his elderly companion.

“What were you thinking, Therin?”

His father demanded again, and this time he was honest enough to answer.

“I wasn’t. I just-“Therin paused, searching his soul for a way to articulate the conflict inside, “I wanted someone to hurt as much as I did, and Kíli was so… smug. The dwarf who’s every hammer stroke turned iron to mithril. The wise prince, strong warrior despite crippling wounds won honorably in battle, King’s councilor, guardian of the symbol of our bloodline, friend to our burglar, wanted-“His laugh was painfully bitter. “Everything I’m not, and can’t be.”

“Do you truly think so little of Therin that the only way he can find worth is to tear others down?”

“Therin!” He spat out his own name as he would the vilest curse. “And who is that, Father? How can an illusion have worth?”

He knew such a statement would fuel his father’s exasperation with him, but he no longer cared. It was time someone else had to hear truths they did not like, to understand his side in all this. Sure enough, Vili scoffed, settling himself on the other side of the bars.

“And just what is that supposed to mean? Therin is a sturdy young dwarf of Durin’s Line, heir to his uncle, the King of Khazad-dûm, brother to Fíli and Kíli, Princes of Erebor, and LIs, Lady of Aglarond. He is the son of Vili and Dis, who love him deeply, even when he exasperates them. He is a friend of hobbits, a fine, though untried, warrior, and a future leader of our people, if he would ever learn to use his-“

“Stop it!” 

He snarled, unheeding of the newly alarmed guard inching closer. He had felt the anger growing inside during that pretty recitation, scorching his blood and tinging his vision red until he shot to his feet, hands curling around the cold metal keeping him caged.

“Just stop it! Can you not hear your own words? You describe Therin by what he is to others- heir, nephew, son, prince- without ever once saying what I am! A warrior? Hardly! What true warrior would be required to hide in the core of the mountain with the children as even the dwarrowdams answer the call to defend our home against a siege? An heir? An empty word when it comes with no responsibilities and cannot even be publically acknowledged! I notice you did not say craft master as it was judged that a supposed prince was above such ordinary work! Was that not what Dain told me when I begged leave to take an apprenticeship upon returning from the Shire, desperate for something to do? But I could not be allowed even that, could I? I am nothing!”

Therin screamed the last three words than sank down, suddenly exhausted, sweat trickling down his face mixing with the hot, angry tears. He tucked his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around them, hiding his red face in his knees, hoarse voice muffled.

“I am nothing. Nothing but an outline, to be filled in as others desire at the moment, then erased again. Let uncle do what he will with me, I shan’t be missed.”

A hand settled on his shoulder and he shrugged it off, leaning out of reach.

“Leave me alone, Father. Go find my brothers. At least you can be proud to be related to them!”

“Therin…”

It was a gentle exasperated chiding, which only made the anger surge weakly back to the surface. How many times had he heard that tone over the years, as if his feelings had no validity? He was tired of giving in, of being in the wrong, of changing himself to be what they wanted!

“Go away!”

“Fine.” Vili’s tone was now tight with anger of its own. “But Kíli is alive, which means you cannot be held any longer if you give your word of honor to submit to proper punishment.”

Therin knew what his father wanted him to say, but he did not respond nor move to look at him. A hand settled on his shoulder again, but this time the grip was too tight to be easily dislodged, fingers biting into his muscle.

“Answer me, young dwarf. Will you give it?”

Therin sneered to himself at that, stung that even his own father seemed to be siding against him, requiring such a thing of him. Did he not know Therin would abide by his honor without asking? Vili was his father, not Fíli and Kili’s! His! 

“Whatever.”

It was impudent and dismissive, the answer of a spoiled, sullen child. If he had hoped it would anger his parent enough to make him leave, however, he was disappointed.

“Whatever what, Therin?”

Vili grated out, tone cold. That finally brought his head up to meet the other’s eyes again, Durin blue as chilly as the ice on the mountain top.

“Whatever I need to do to make you leave me alone! You have my word of honor, are you satisfied?”

“No.”

There was a deep hurt there, and Therin cursed himself for lashing out once again, especially at one who had only ever tried to help him. Why was he acting as if he were forty? It was not Vili who had put him in this situation!

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, hiding his face again, “I can’t do anything right. You can tell Thorin I will abide by my word of honor.”

His shoulder was given another squeeze, then a heavy sigh sounded from outside his cell and his father was gone, leaving the young dwarf sunk once more in a misery of his own making.


	36. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we catch up with Kili...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

36\. Memories

Several hours before, with Kili…

Kíli did not know how much time passed as he lay in a drug and fever-induced haze; all he knew was that he was no longer in that cavern. Hands were on him frequently, but they were gentle, turning him this way and that, rubbing things into his skin or simply caressing his hair or face. There was water, too, all around him, cooling and soothing as it bore away the heat that would not relent. He was never alone, that much he knew and was grateful for. Some part of his exhausted mind must have still been connected with the stone, as he felt the footsteps as tiny, ticklish brushes against his bare skin and heard the vibrations of the voices, though he could rarely make out words.

He was safe and the pain was being kept at a low ebb, and for a long while, it was enough. Eventually, however, the voices and his own curiosity could no longer be satisfied with being languidly manipulated and cared for, driving him back toward the reality around him. That meant pain, and he steeled himself for the pervasive ache throughout his body, biting back a cry as hands fiddled with his injured shoulder.

"...nutmeg, among others. Like many herbs, it can be dangerous in high doses, causing muscle aches, heart palpations, even fits.”

“Isn’t there something you can do for the pain? I hate it when he cries out like that.”

Kíli could not identify the first voice, but Fíli sounded desperate, pushed to the edge. No matter how much he wished to, the younger prince could not surface enough to make his body move, reach out and reassure his brother. It was just too hot, too much effort…

It's this fever that is the greater threat, Fíli. It is all we can do to keep him from going into convulsions again. We did not have him out of the bath more than an hour last time."

“Oh, Kíli… Why must you always be difficult, little brother? Do us all a favor and fight this fever, would you?”

Fever. Yes, he was tired of that, muddling his mind and toying with his senses. But he was too weary to fight right now. Sleep was better than thinking of such things... even with the water all around him, making him wish his body were cooperative, to pull away and ensure that his face did not go under. Water had frequently haunted his nightmares since he was a young child, waking him thrashing and gasping even before he had cause for such horrors to revisit him. 

Dwarrow as a race had never been all that comfortable around water, as their bones were too dense to float well, though most were at least taught to swim, unlike hobbits. Kíli had been given lessons as soon as he was old enough to understand how to move his arms and legs correctly, but this inability to move, to control his surroundings... It was panic inducing. He could not give in to the feelings, he knew that. His uncle had taught him about such emotions, in his usual, blunt, Thorin Oakenshield way...

_Ered Luin, Third Age 2873_

_The nine year old dwarfling clung hard to his uncle's neck, trying to remember not to pull on the thick black hair, but he was afraid. He sniffed, a slightly grubby little hand coming up to wipe away tears before his uncle noticed. The dwarf king-in-exile would never give in to such weakness, so neither should he! Kili and Fili had to be big lads now, aiding their Mama, that’s what everyone said!_

_Had it really already been a fortnight since the awful wail of the emergency horn at the mine had woken him from an afternoon nap? Any dwarf who lived long in the ruins of Belegost knew what that haunting sound meant, and dreaded it, even infants adding their own cries of distress to the mournful wail as those able to raced to discover what had occurred. Every other time, either Uncle Vili or Father had strode in the door soon after, covered in dust, to assure them all that they were both fine, then disappeared back to aid the clean-up and support those whose loved ones had not been so fortunate._

_There had been no smile and threat of a dirty hug to make dwarflings giggle this time, however. Instead, it was Cousin Gloin who had appeared at the door, a few soft words leading Mama to bold out the door without a word to her anxious sons while Mister Balin came to sit with them. It was their kindly old cousin who broke the news as gently as he could to the scared little brothers, explaining that a fault in the rock had given way, crushing Father and Uncle Vili. Father had died instantly, and they did not yet know if Uncle would live. They had to cut off his arm just below his shoulder, a fact that haunted Kili’s dreams._

_That day would always mark the moment his life turned upside down for Kili. In the days afterward, it seemed that nothing he did was right, no matter how well meaning. His attempt to make breakfast so that Mama did not have to ended with egg in his hair, honey sticking his fingers together, and flour liberally covering every surface of the kitchen, including the glum dwarfling._

_Singing to cheer Mama up made Uncle Thorin yell to ‘stop that caterwauling!’ Whatever that meant._

_An attempt to play quietly by the fire as he had been told resulted in accidently knocking over and burning Fili’s boots. He did not understand why everyone was so mad about that one, it wasn’t like Fili had been in them! And to add to his misery, his tummy felt sick every time he tried to eat, while not eating earned him a scolding from Thorin and worry from Mama!_

_Finally, Uncle Thorin had brought Fíli and Kíli on a walk in the woods, giving Mama a break from two young children with more energy than understanding much of the time. He said she needed to rest and take care of herself, not just them, so Uncle had been making a point of coming over almost every day._

_There had even been talk of him moving into their little home, a notion that had excited both Fíli and Kíli. It had been nice, to have such attention from the uncle who had been so stand-offish early on, even though Kíli knew it was only because of father. He winced as the memory of that horrible day surfaced much too quickly in his mind. That had been the worst day of the little dwarf's life, but this had the potential to become the second worst._

_First, Uncle had ordered Fíli to stay on the shore of the pond while he hoisted Kíli onto his shoulders, then he had proceeded into the water far past where the tiny brunette was allowed to go. Kíli was torn between the thrill of the forbidden and anxiousness at the idea of all that water beneath him, far over his little head. Were they not far enough already? The water was almost at Thorin's shoulders, splashing onto Kili's bare feet and making him shiver despite the heat of midday. Finally, as water came up to his knees, soaking his uncle's long hair, the dwarfling ventured an objection._

_"Uncle, Mama said that I shouldn't-"_

_Thorin snorted, though he did not sound too grumpy._

_"I know what your mother has said, Kíli, but you will be ten years old soon, and start your training. It is time for you to begin to understand as an adult would."_

_That sounded rather... scary, especially with his older brother so far away._

_"Understand what?"_

_Kíli asked warily, casting a glance over his shoulder to where he could see his blonde brother pacing on the shore. The last time this large, intimidating dwarf had said such a thing, it was to take Fili away to learn with Mister Balin and Mister Dwalin every day, far from Kili, who had never been separated for so long from his beloved older brother._

_"This." Uncle Thorin's large hands grabbed him about the waist, lifting up only to stop as Kíli refused to release his hold. "Let go of my neck, child!"_

_The barked order was enough to make him open his hands, but a moment later, he wished fervently that he had ignored Thorin. The adult dwarf swept him up into the air and let go, sending the dwarfling in an arch toward the water. Kíli shrieked as his sturdy little body hit the surface and went under, eyes stinging and mouth gaping open to accept the water, arms and legs flailing in every direction. He had been taught to hold his breath, but the shock of the sudden ducking had made all rational thoughts flee from his mind, panic seizing hold._

_Cold, dark, alone, no air, no help, no..._

_As quickly as he had been underwater, he was in the air again, arms holding him and a voice urging that he cough out the liquid choking him. Some part of the dwarfling was aware that he was being carried, but he was coughing and crying too hard to pay attention to where or even by who. Then he was set down on a rock and immediately curled up, arms hugging his knees tight to his chest as he finally tried to stop coughing. Hands came around him, and he began to pull away, then relaxed as his body recognized the familiar feel of his older brother hovering close._

_"-could have killed him!"_

_Was Fíli actually yelling at Uncle Thorin? Wiping tears and pond water from his eyes, Kíli perked up, head swiveling to stare first at his brother and then at his uncle as what had just happened finally sunk in._

_"You threw me in the water!"_

_There was a thread of fear there as he stared at the adult dwarf he had believed could always be trusted with the first true hints of doubt. Why would his uncle do such a thing?_

_"I did." Thorin calmly acknowledged, a raised eyebrow making Fíli gulp and back down a little. "Now, do you remember how you felt as the water closed over you, Kíli?"_

_He would not soon be forgetting such a thing! The dwarfling gave a sharp nod, shuddering again as fresh tears sprung to his eyes and he jut out his jaw, glaring at his elder. He refused to allow this stern dwarf to see him shaking with fear! For some reason, that only made Thorin chuckle, ruffling his wet hair._

_"I do not blame you for being angry, little one, I was furious when my father did it to me. But I want you to hold that feeling in your mind, remember it always. That was panic, and it is our worst enemy in any situation, even deadlier than a foe's weapon. You must learn to recognize and control panic before you can do anything else."_

Kíli strained against the weakness and injury holding his body captive, head thrashing at the memory. 

“How is he?”

That voice… Timid, shy, yet caring. A friend sorely missed.

“The same. How are you, Ori? I’m sorry about Dori. I wish he would have lived long enough to know you were safe.”

“That’s all right, Fíli. Nori told me he was content, needed, which is all Dori really wanted. I- I hope you don’t mind me coming in here… I’m not used to so many people.”

“Hide in here whenever you feel the need. Kíli and I are glad of the company.”

“There’s about to be more of it, I’m afraid. Lady Dis and Vili just arrived on an eagle!”

There was astonished wonder in the scribe’s voice, but the rest of the conversation was lost to the ill dwarf as his mind wandered in time. Eagles… Yes, he had ridden on one once, but the circumstances had not exactly been enjoyable. Uncle injured, Azog alive, being chased up trees by wargs. He thrashed as the dream drew him in, but water abruptly splashing over his face jolted his mind to another memory, a month prior to their unplanned playtime with the overgrown puppies…

_Third Age, 2940, a fortnight east of Bree along the banks of the Bruinen_

_Kíli swore as the wet leather of Bongo's lead slipped through his gloved hand, allowing the pony, and his load of precious supplies, to bolt into the river. Overhead, another bolt of lightning sizzled through the air to strike a tree on one of the nearby hillsides, shaking the ground, but the archer did not allow himself to hesitate. He flung himself after the pony, arching his body to cut through the rain swollen waters in a dive, then his powerful shoulders went to work, pulling him toward the frantic animal.  
No doubt his brother and his uncle would have unkind words for him should he make it back to land, but Kíli was so focused on the threat of losing those supplies that he did not care. He would do anything to make up for the embarrassment of being rebuked by his uncle three nights ago; anything to prove that he, the youngest of them, was worthy of being here. And if that made him a bit reckless... Well, there were worse things to be called._

_The company had taken shelter from a sudden afternoon thunderstorm under a rocky overhang, glad of the respite from the humid weather. Strange, that even with the afternoon heat finally broken by the storm, Kíli had still felt so hot that he wanted to strip to the skin, as he used to as a young child in Ered Luin. Before he had been able to shrug out of more than his sopping wet coat, however, one of the ponies that Ori and Nori were supposed to have hobbled reared up in fright, dumping a frantic Ori on his butt in the mud._

_Kíli had tried to grab for the lead, but the pony had been too strong, so here he was, gasping as the current slapped more water into his nose and mouth, momentarily choking him. Another stroke and his free hand connected with shaggy hide and moving muscles, blindly searching for the bridle as the river tried again to pull him under. The churning produced by Bongo's hooves spun him around as something clipped him on the upper arm, and suddenly, Kíli had no idea which way was up._

_Air! He needed air!_

_He could not panic, he was better trained than that! Even as his lungs began to burn, he fought to make sense of his surroundings, use his head as opposed to his fright. He straightened his legs, a thrill of triumph going through him as they were stopped abruptly by something hard. Kíli pushed off, body surging up into the open air, which he gulped gratefully as one hand tangled in Bongo's mane. He grabbed tight to the bridle, fighting the current as he yanked the pony toward a flickering light. Another crack of lightning exploding a tree on the far bank, however, was too much, and Bongo began thrashing wildly, throwing Kíli back into the deeper water near the center of the river._

_"-li! Left! To your left! Kíli!"_

_He could barely make out the shouts over the ringing in his ears and the roar of the water around him as he surfaced again. This time there was no solid rock under his feet and his arms felt like leaden weights as he twisted around, trying to gain his bearings._

_"Look out!"_

_His brother's voice sounded closer than the previous shouts, but before he could decide why that was, something slammed into him and he lost himself to the blackness, only one thought repeating over and over in his mind._

"Sorry, uncle, I failed, I failed!"

The sound of his own voice, hoarse and almost unrecognizable though it was, jolted him from the last shreds of the memory. Fíli had pulled him out, but not before almost drowning himself, and they had lost all the supplies anyway. Thorin had yelled at him for almost a solid half hour before relenting enough to say that they would have sorely missed that pony in the days to come. 

Afterward, however, he placed Fíli and Kíli on pony duty instead of having them scout ahead and hunt as he normally did, claiming that he did not trust others with the duty now. It was boring, and the young prince resented the waste of his abilities, especially at mealtime, when the stew was thin and lacking much meat. Kíli had known it was punishment, even if Thorin never said so. 

Then he had failed even at that, becoming distracted by the odd lack of animal tracks around their campsite and allowing a troll of stroll in and carry off four ponies. To cap it off, he had tricked the hobbit into going in alone, then failed to back him up right away when he was caught, freezing in fear. Not his finest showing, that was for certain. Why did he always fail? Even now, fourteen years later!

Captive, alone, sheered of the last shred of dignity, he had panicked and he knew it. Hands, wiping a cloth over his face, soothing, the murmur of a much loved and missed voice...

"Shhh... it's alright, love. You're safe, Kili, just rest."

Rest. Yes. That sounded right. Away from the nightmares and the pain, cradled by that voice, as he had been since birth…


	37. Politics and Perception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some Durin family dynamics are explored...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

37\. Politics and Perception

Thorin watched as his sister soothed her fretful son back into the calm rhythms of sleep in his water-filled tub, sighing. He had hoped Dis would take his words to heart and remain at Erebor, but it was obviously not to be. Such a belief had fooled only himself, making even Nast give him a mildly amused look when he had voiced it. Dwalin had scoffed openly, and Fíli had merely requested someone let him know when – not if - his mother arrived, saying that the raven that had taken the message of Kili’s capture to Erebor two days before had returned recently muttering about rude, overbearing eagles.

Obviously, Thorin had not caught the significance of that. Shaking his head at his own obtuseness, he moved into the small healing room to stand on the opposite side of Kíli, somewhat surprised to see Dis there alone. Where had Fíli gone? He would not willingly leave his brother, Thorin was certain of that! Unwilling to break the silence, however, he eased himself to the stone floor instead, mindful of his own still sore body protesting its lack of rest and care. 

Dis’ eyes were red and puffy, showing the emotional toll being exacted from her as another tear tracked its way down her cheek. Her silvery grey hair was coming loose from its normally neat braids, giving her an unkempt, windblown look. Even as he reached across the prone Kíli to lift a stray hair from her face, it brought him back to their childhood, when she raced the halls of Erebor, unheeding of the meaning of sorrow in her safe, insulated little world. He would have given anything to protect her so forever! So much sorrow and pain had put wrinkle lines on her brow and tear tracks down her face that seemed fated to be permanent. Unaware of his musings and regrets, Dis instantly leaned into the touch, letting her cheek press into his palm as she had done since a tiny babe.

"Another fever dream?"

He asked, already knowing the answer. Kíli was nude except for a cloth covering his privates, only his face held out of the water by blankets propped at one end of the stone trough. Dwarrow were not normally body shy, even with those of the opposite sex, but some of the other races here were. Not to mention the fact that it was a bit unseemly for the prince to be lying on display with no awareness of it, so the healers had been careful to maintain the modest covering on their patient.

The healers had been very pleased to find this area, pointing out such features proudly to him only last week, when he had not cared in the least. Now, he was more grateful than the healers for his ancestors' ingenuity and planning. A clever system of a snow melt basin high on the mountain above them and a series of channels bored through the rock brought fresh water pouring down to be heated over a small fire or run over the patient still cold, as Kíli needed. 

Even better, enough of the liquid had been stored above to allow the flow to continue unabated, keeping the water fresh and washing away blood and other fluids from the patient. So far, it was only this constant flow of chill liquid that was able to keep the deadly fever even partially in check, preventing more of the fever-fits that had threatened the prince's life in Minas Tirith and again in Erebor just after their return. An earlier attempt to lift him from the bath had caused the fever to soar within an hour, leaving the healers scrambling.

This was one of two such baths and cleaning facilities here, though the other would take some repair work to be functional again. The small complex also housed steam rooms for those with breathing difficulties, a surgery, an herbal room with a tunnel leading out to a small garden, and beds, both dwarrow sized and for larger patients. Unfortunately, they currently needed almost all of them for the injured not evacuated to Lothlorien, so work parties had been quickly organized to make them usable.

"Aye, though the healers prefer it to the deep unconsciousness Senata tells me he was in when you rescued him yesterday. They say that the dreams mean he is not sinking too deeply into himself to return when he is strong enough."

Thorin nodded at that, preferring not to think of those long hours with nothing to do but sit and wait, unsure if Kíli was even still alive. It had been a long, lonely night, only ending in the early hours of the morning, when the healers finally allowed them in to see their wounded kin. Not much had changed in the hours since, except who kept vigil. 

There was an honor guard of soldiers that changed every few hours outside, eager to retrieve anything those inside the little room might need in exchange for word of how their prince was doing. Nearby, candles flickered and cast the corners of the room into shadow, releasing their sweet scent of athelas as they slowly burned down during the endless watch.

Dis smiled slightly, finally allowing him to pull his hand away from where she had it trapped between her cheek and shoulder. Swiftly, she grabbed his wrist, tugging until he obediently got up and moved around next to her, allowing her to nestle into his side as she had since she was small. She did not seem to mind that he had barely allowed himself time to do more than wash off the worst of the grime and pull on a fresh tunic someone handed him. He was not even sure if the clothing was his or Dwalin’s. His arm settled over her shoulders, squeezing gently. 

Dis always seemed so strong and self-contained that it surprised others when they were allowed to witness this; to see her needing the comfort of her normally cold and aloof oldest brother. Not to mention how tender he could be with her, willingly giving that physical closeness with a gentleness that must have seemed out of character for the stern king. Few realized that the strength Dis outwardly displayed was a necessary mask, learned since birth, concealing the emotional and insecure dwarrowdam that she really was. In a habit as old as their kinship, his fingers found their way to one of her braids, twining the slick silvery-grey strand around and around in his own calming ritual.

"You aren't surprised to see me."

She murmured, head resting on his shoulder tiredly. He gave her hair a playful tug as he savored her closeness.

"No, I ran into Vili upstairs. He told me you two left the mountain on eagles with the first message that Kíli had been taken."

"Gwaihir insisted upon taking us himself. He said it was unusual to find dwarrow who cared so much for the other races, and that he would do whatever he could to repay such kindnesses."

“And you deemed it wise to come to a war zone that I ordered your daughter out of mere weeks ago?”

She stiffened at the gentle rebuke before tilting her head up on his shoulder to peer into his face. There was a hint of challenge in the deep blue eyes that locked with his, petite mouth scowling in displeasure as she moved slightly away from him. He allowed the braid to slip through his fingers lest he accidently pull it.

"Did you not know that I would come if one of my boys was in trouble, let alone all three?"

Dis bit out, low and bitter, as she leaned forward to needlessly smooth Kili's hair back from his face again, though her gaze darted to the small, low cot pushed against the wall nearby. A single, ratty blonde braid trailed out from under the blankets to fall over the side of the bed, dangling just above the floor. It was only then that Thorin realized what he had taken for a mound of extra blankets actually concealed the slumbering form of his eldest nephew.

"How long has he been asleep? And what sorcery did you resort to, to accomplish such a feat?"

His sister's form shook against him as she laughed softly, settling her head back onto his shoulder.

"About two hours, and it was not me. Wyvern, that young healer, slipped a healing draught into his soup. Some concoction used almost exclusively by the elves that Fíli would not recognize the taste of. It didn’t take more than a few minutes before he was out like a snuffed candle."

The giggle was strained and brief, but wicked, reminding Thorin sharply of where her sons had gotten their penchant for mischief from. He gave another of her braids a sharp tug of reprimand.

"Sneaky." Thorin conceded, grateful that someone had taken the oldest prince in hand when he had been too distracted to see to it himself. "You know he'll be livid when he wakes."

"And I don't care. He was exhausted, injured, and emotionally overwrought, Thorin. Two of my boys in trouble is plenty, I don't need Fíli collapsing, too."

He frowned down at the top of her head, though he could not truly blame her for the sharpness of her answer. His reply was a gentle chiding in her ear.

"I'm not arguing, Dis."

She swallowed hard, eyes darting away, and Thorin braced himself for the question he knew was coming. It was the reason he had not slept yet himself, allowing Dwalin and Bofur to pull him from meaningless task to meaningless task, all petty things that a king should never be concerned with. They had not urged him to sleep, nor even lay down, only insisting that he wash and have his wounds checked after he had seen Kíli. Those two had understood what he could not say; that he needed the activity to stop him from thinking about the one thing he should be deeply worried about, but could not face - Frérin.

"Is it true? Was it really him? Was it my own brother who ordered my sons' deaths?"

The emotional pain was so thick and heavy that it was physical, making the king gasp and squeeze his eyes shut against the memories. He did not try to hold her as he felt her shift away. Hands settled around his shoulders and then cupped his face to bring his forehead against hers as a lone tear made its way down into his beard. He could feel Dis shaking with her own tears, and brought his arms up to hold her close in his turn, allowing them the luxury of mourning for several minutes. The silence was broken only by the soft burble of the flowing water and the harsh, hitched breaths of the two dwarrow as they worked through emotions few others could comprehend. Finally, he pushed her back just enough to settle his hands on either side of her face, thumbs swiping at tears still pouring from reddened, sleepless eyes.

"You-” His voice broke and he forced himself to swallow against the sudden dryness. "You must always remember that it is not him, no matter the face that is shown to you. They have twisted and corrupted him beyond redemption. Frérin died at Anzanulbizar, I will hear none say otherwise."

Her head nodded ever so slightly, and a hint of anger crept into a pained, watery gaze.

"Thorin... How did this happen? You, Dwalin, Balin, and Gróin, all of you told me he was dead! That you saw the body."

"I thought we had, Dis, but they had mutilated them so... We had no cause to think him taken, and another put in his place. But that must have been what they did." His lips pulled into a twisted grimace, his anger aimed solely at himself now. “I should have known! I should have known it was not him and not stopped until I found him, no matter what Father commanded!”

He rested his forehead against hers as he spoke, but kept his gaze locked on the stone floor, unwilling to face the condemnation in those eyes, so like those of their lost sibling. Why had he not known, not felt that it was a trick? Surely if Fíli had been faced with the same dilemma, no one would have had to tell him Kíli was alive!

“Don’t, Thorin.” Dis’ tearful voice shattered the dark thoughts. “Don’t blame yourself. I’ve seen what orcs will do to their victims given the chance. You could not have known! What is done is done, the past is unchanging. We must deal with the present now.” She hesitated, then continued with a hint of the lost little dwarfling she once was. “What is he like now?”

The altered, older form of the person who had been his brother came to mind all too vividly still. Thorin grimaced, unsure why she insisted upon questions that would only bring more pain.

"He looks a lot like Father now."

He heard her sharp intake as her quick mind pulled together the same pieces Thorin had.

"All those reports we would receive about Father in the Southlands..."

"Yes,” The king turned that one over, trying to see all sides. "Either they were mistaken identity as Frérin rallied the cult, or deliberate, to draw me there."  
"So they could kill you!" Dis leaned back, staring at him in horror. "Then Frérin would have shown up with some tale of misery and captivity, and we would have welcomed him!"

Thorin nodded, lips pressed tight in anger. He had already concluded that the cult planned as much, but he had always avoided their ambushes, if they were there. Though that was sheer luck most of the time, as he had no notion he was even being hunted until that fateful meeting with Gandalf in Bree.

“What will you do now?”

Thorin snorted, letting his hand swirl idly through the water, stroking Kili's unbound arm.

“What I came here to do; end this and restore Khazad-dûm.”

Dis pursed her lips, blue eyes thoughtful.

“Fre-“ At his glare, she cut herself off, “He knows how you think, Thorin. He’ll be waiting for you. Will you-“ She swallowed hard, blinking back tears. “Will you kill him?”

The answer to that was one he had wrestled with whenever his hands and mind were idle, haunting in its simple necessity and stark harshness. No matter how he twisted and contorted reality, there could be no other, he just was not certain he could actually carry it out. This time, he met her blue eyes squarely, boring into them with his own steel gaze, unable to show his own torment to one who already suffered so.

“Yes.”

She flinched hard at the simple acknowledgement of that awful reality, though it had been a long while since they could shelter Dis from the harsh side of life. That was a luxury lost with the fall of Erebor, when Dis had been barely more than a toddler. Her eyes bore into his, all too knowing now, no longer innocent and blindly trusting, no matter how he wished otherwise. Thorin relented, then, allowing some of his own heartache at the idea to become visible.

“What else can I do?”

“And what of my son, Thorin?” 

Vili’s voice boomed through the space like a thunderclap, making the other two flinch and gasp in shock. The other dwarf’s anger was clear as he stalked in, glaring down at his marriage-brother. 

“Do you intend to kill him, too? For what anywhere else would have been an ill-thought out, mean spirited prank?”

Thorin could feel his own temper rising in response to the scorn in Vili’s tone, the king standing to face him head-on.

“He was not somewhere else, Vili, and Therin himself has admitted that it was done with both forethought and malice. His actions very nearly cost Kíli his life. The law is clear.”

“The law is clear.” Vili parroted back flatly. “That is your only answer? And you will allow this, Dis? He is talking about the life of our son!”

“Kíli is my son as well, Vili, or have you forgotten that? How can you ask me to choose between them?”

The blonde dwarf’s hand tightened until the knuckles went white, jaw clenching as he glared at his wife. 

A rustle of blankets from nearby alerted Thorin to the fact that they were not alone, and he cursed Vili silently for adding to the stress that already bowed Fíli’s frame. From the cot, the prince surged up to confront his uncle turned pledge-father, but Thorin grabbed his arm, pulling his nephew close. From the sudden tension between the couple, he was certain that this was not a new argument, nor would they welcome Fíli’s interference.

“Choose?” There was such scorn in that that Thorin began to wonder if he had misjudged the one-armed dwarf. Perhaps for his sister’s sake, he should intervene. “There is no choice to be made, Dis. There never was. Therin has never been more than a puppet to you, born and bred for the needs of the Line of Durin!”

“How dare you! I-“

It was the inarticulate cry from the water filled tub that stopped the argument cold. Kíli was half fallen out of the stone trough, free hand alternately clutching at the side to keep himself up and attempting to pull the linen bandages from over his eyes.  
Fíli was on his knees first, hands trying to find a place on his brother that was safe to grab. With one shoulder and arm bound across his torso, and the rest of him littered with cuts and bruises too numerous to count, that was not an easy task. Finally, the blonde settled for putting both hands under Kili’s good arm while Thorin steadied him from behind.

“Kíli! You’re safe! Easy, lay down-“

Thorin ignored Fíli’s litany of reassurances, concentrating on not allowing his hands to slip. Whatever herbs had been rubbed on Kili’s skin to aid healing had made him as slick as the greased pig dwarflings tried to catch at Durin’s Day celebrations. Besides, adding his voice would likely do little other than add to Kili’s confusion. If his older brother could not calm the ill dwarf, no one could. The king winced as his sister’s elbow caught his ribs as she, too, attempted to hold onto the still thrashing Kíli.  
“Please, love, it’s alright! Fíli and Thorin are here, and-“

As suddenly as the struggle had begun, it was over, Kíli going limp in their hands. The only sign that he was still conscious, if not coherent, was the harsh breathing. Carefully, they lowered him back down to recline against the blankets, and Thorin discretely replaced the towel covering his privates. Kili’s free hand was now pressed tightly between Dis’.

“Now,” Thorin gently brushed back some of the wet hair clinging to his nephew’s forehead, dismayed to still feel the heat of a high fever. “What was all that about? You are safe, but you must rest and recover, Kíli.”

Thorin spoke more out of habit then the belief that his ill nephew would actually be coherent enough to respond. To his surprise, the ill dwarf tugged at the hand his mother held, reaching shakily toward his uncle’s voice when it was released. He heard a noisy breath being sucked in from behind as the others came to the same realization, but refused to give up his space by Kili's head even as Fíli crowded close.

When Thorin took Kili's hand in his turn, he could feel the fingers fighting to form recognizable Iglishmêk words and moved his hand to simply support the wrist, letting all of them see. The signs were only half formed and he had to glance at his older nephew to receive a translation. For once, Fíli whispered only the actual words Kili’s fingers formed instead of the complete sentence he normally would have formed around them for his brother.

‘Angry. No. Fight. No.’

As Kili’s fingers began to repeat the first word again, Thorin recaptured the hand between both of his, stilling it.

“Enough. There will be no more arguing, Kíli, you do not need to worry.” And the look he cast both Dis and Vili promised mayhem should they break that pledge. “Rest now, just rest.”

“Uncle’s right, Kíli. You’re safe.”

Fíli leaned down, whispering something to his sibling that Thorin could not catch, though it brought a flicker of a smile to Kili’s lips. If there was one constant in life, it was that Fíli and Kíli were two halves of a whole, or maybe two parts of one half, while their ladies made up the other? Thorin smiled to himself at the thought, standing to face his sister and her husband. Before he could say anything, however, Fíli stood as well, and it was not a son or nephew who confronted the combatants, but the Prince of Erebor, straight and regal even in rumpled, stained battle gear.

“There will be no more argument. The law is clear; the right to petition for punishment lies solely with the dwarf injured by the actions, no other. That being said,” Here, he faced Vili squarely, daring his uncle to object. “If either of you has anything to say, I will be willing to hear it and pass on the words to Kíli when he is well enough.”

Fíli’s stiff, defensive posture made it clear that Kili's physical health was not the main reason for that restriction. The oldest prince had always been protective of his little brother, but that instinct was strongest when the potential danger came from family. Perhaps because it was the ones who were closest who could do the greatest damage? 

Given Kili's distress only minutes ago, Thorin would back Fíli without question. He crossed his arms, ignoring the pull of healing wounds, and allowed his countenance to harden, quelling the comment on the lips of his sister. Vili, however, was not so easily swayed, eyes running up and down the prince before he conceded that with a short, sharp nod.

“Very well,” He gestured them all a few feet further away from Kili’s water bath, lowering his voice in volume if not in intensity. “I did not agree with Dis being ordered to marry so soon after Erebor was reclaimed, and only went along with it because I knew she couldn’t stand the other dwarf Dain had picked.” He raised a hand as Fíli moved to interrupt. “Bear with me, Fíli, this is important. When she bore twins, we both knew we would not be allowed to raise the boy as we wished. Hell, we weren’t even allowed to choose his name!” 

Thorin’s eyebrows shot up at that. Dain had better be thankful he was already dead! Vili saw the anger there and nodded grimly.

“Exactly. When it became clear that the twins were in danger, I supported sending them to the Shire, even though it may have been the worst move we could have made for Therin.”

“How so?” Thorin spat out, growing impatient again. For the peace of the family, he would listen to Vili’s words, but he doubted they would change anything. For the blood of Durin, duty to their people always came first, it was as simple as that. “I cannot imagine Bilbo was a bad parent.”

“Not for a hobbit, no, you have only to look at Frodo to see that, but for a dwarf? The Shire is a peaceful land, with no need to bear arms, no court or politics, and no other dwarrow. When Therin came home after thirty years there, he did not have the arms training of his peers, nor the experience, despite Bilbo taking them to Tookborough every summer for training with a Ranger. He did not fit in with his peers, teased as being too soft, too much a hobbit, and he began to try to be more of a dwarf than anyone else to prove that he did belong there. Unfortunately, that’s when politics intervened. 

Dain felt it was too risky to allow Therin to take a place with the guard, a prince wasn’t allowed to learn a common trade, and he couldn’t be openly acknowledged as Stronghelm’s heir and given those responsibilities because it would mean publically admitting that Stronghelm couldn’t sire his own children! Do you not see what an impossible situation Therin was placed in? And just when it finally looks to be resolved, in come his two older brothers, whom he has been compared to all his life, and he’s pushed to the side again! Is it any wonder he acted the jealous child, with no true comprehension of the dangers of his actions?”

“That does not excuse such actions, especially in a war zone. He fought when the camp was attacked, saw others die. He knew the dangers.”

Only Dis’ hand on Vili’s arm stump prevented the other dwarf from getting directly in his face. Vili visibly collected himself.

“I am not saying that it should excuse my son from paying the consequences, Thorin, just that it should be kept in mind when the punishment is decided. Is death still a possibility?”

“No.” Fíli said flatly. “Kíli would never be willing to ask for that, not now.”

“Good. Then when will Therin be released? I have his pledge that he will abide by the laws of our people. He cannot be held imprisoned if death is not a possible punishment.”

Now Thorin recalled why this one had always irritated him so. He was worse about such things than even Balin had been, arguing law and tradition better than their most devoted scholars. Dwarrow as a race held strongly to such things, a necessity lest they be perpetually at war with each other, not to mention other races. Instead, any insult or injury was strictly governed by elaborate laws and traditions that dated back to the original Durin. At the core of that system, of course, was honor.

“Very well.” Thorin nodded, ignoring the noise of disgust Fili made deep in his throat. “His rank is in abeyance until the matter is settled, but he may join a patrol as a regular warrior, subject to the command of his patrol leader.”

“Put him with Einarr, if he is willing.” At Thorin’s startled look, Dwalin shrugged, pushing off from his previous position by the door, a silent sentinel to the whole mess. “That one will neither coddle him nor allow cult ideas near the boy again.”  
“So be it.”

Fíli, as Kili’s closest kin in the absence of his wife, and prince, had the final say.


	38. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is healing and comfort...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

38\. Awakening

Kíli was in that pleasant edge of sleep just before waking, where the mind and body were not aware enough to be hurt, scared, or cold, when hands jolted him from his placid state.

_*Claws, gripping him so tightly that they added yet more stinging cuts to his abused skin. Voices, jeering and laughing, the harsh tones grating upon raw nerves as he bit back a sob, helpless to stop the pain they would undoubtedly inflict. He had to find a way to fight, to get away-*_

"Kíli!"

That voice, he knew that voice! It was safety! He had to fight, to reach for it! His limbs flailed out, but without much force or coordination. Someone cursed softly, a low oath in Khuzdul, not the evil Black Speech, and the hair that his good hand tangled in was soft and fine, braided, not the coarse wisps that some of the orcs sported. It was enough to make him pause. Hands grabbed his head, preventing the thrashing from restarting and he berated himself for the lost opportunity to escape, but the hands were gentle and soft, warm, not the cold, rough, leathery disgusting things that made his skin crawl. It was enough to allow the last vestiges of the flashback to fade, refocusing on the words someone was saying almost in his ear.

"It's all right, little brother, you're safe now! You're safe."

Fíli. There was a ragged desperation to those words that made Kíli believe his brother had been repeating them for quite some time while he was caught in his nightmarish memories. Letting out a sob of relief this time, Kíli allowed his body to go limp, the energy of fear and anger draining to leave him barely able to keep awareness. Strong arms enfolded him carefully in a hug, water dripping from him, and he relaxed into the familiar hold. The younger prince would have gladly stayed there for hours, but all too soon, his brother gently released him, stroking the wild brunette strands of hair away from his face. When Kíli let out a soft whine of discontent, all the sound that he could bring his raw throat to make, a low chuckle warmed him.

“Relax, I won’t go far, but the healers grow impatient to tend to your wounds.”

Fíli started to hum low in his throat, the sound carrying Kíli back to that last peaceful night in Bag End, as the company gathered around the hobbit’s fireplace. Caught up in the memory and unwilling to force it away in favor of paying attention to whatever unpleasant things the healers were about, he hovered there awhile, feeling his body manipulated by multiple sets of hands. Some were too large to be dwarrow, but he was too comfortable to feel alarm, almost hearing the bass rumble of Thorin and the lighter baritone of Bofur as the mournful tune spoke of loss and ruin.

As the song at last faded, he realized that some of the sound was actually coming from those around him were talking, but he was too lazy to make sense of it, allowing them to fade to a pleasant buzz. There was a lulling quality to the voices, so much better than the grating harshness of orcs and goblins. Safe. He was with friends, his wounds being tended, his mind allowed to relax. He had to keep repeating that over and over to himself, a mantra that stopped him from slipping back into captivity. Hearing Fíli’s familiar baritone, light and teasing, helped immensely. His older brother seemed to sense when he was dancing upon that edge, pulling him back from the nightmares and darkness each time with finger strokes through his hair and murmured reassurances.

All the while, the water was being gently dabbed from his skin, not rubbed, which was a relief, as he still felt every brush of air or cloth. He was no longer so hot, but his body still felt stretched and too small, every press of a finger, no matter how light, a bruising force. He must have muttered something aloud, though how anyone could understand his harsh croaks was a mystery, because they whispered back that it was the effects of the drugs he had been forced to drink. It would fade, given time. It was more important now that he not accidently slip back into the stone, for that would make his fever flare again.

Just as he was beginning to shiver a bit, his torso was wrapped in cotton and they began drying his arms and legs, the soft textile feeling so good that another whimper of relief escaped him. Fíli hushed him, another voice joining in. When was the last time Erebor had received a shipment of the southern cloth so fine? Cotton was a rare commodity in the northern climates, where most of their clothing was made of wool, leather, or the rough spun lower grade cotton that was all most traders carried so far. A voice chuckled, and this time he was able to understand the words.

"You're not in Erebor, remember? Gondor included plenty of high grade cotton among the healers' supplies they sent. Good thing, too."

That was not Fíli...

"Senata?"

His voice sounded harsh to his own ears, making him wince, but at least it was somewhat audible, which was better than he usually did after a high fever. A few sips of water pressed to his lips aided, as well, though he would much prefer ice just now. Or the snow flavored with maple syrup that the hobbits liked so much. He had not had that treat since leaving the Blue Mountains so long ago. It would feel so good upon the burning fire of his throat…

"Aye, I'm here, my prince. But you had better stop talking and use Iglishmêk if you need anything, or you won't have any voice left at all."

That was true enough. Shaky fingers crooked into an 'okay' sign, glad it was one that could be done with only a single working hand. Too bad he could not so easily describe the treat he craved. Perhaps the sign for snow and- He gasped, all thoughts of signs and sweets vanishing in renewed pain as cloth caught on the rough edge of one of the innumerable cuts on his legs.

"Sorry, sorry..." 

It was not Senata who apologized, and it took Kíli a moment for his memories to supply a name for that voice. Wyvern, the healer from Gondor. Senata let out a grunt, hands shifting underneath where they held his body in the air.

"Let's lay him down; we need to treat those cuts again before they really start to hurt him."

The cotton was pulled away, but before the prince could object, his naked body was eased down onto a surface covered in lamb's hide. It was sheer bliss, the downy wool cushioning without rubbing or placing undue pressure on sensitive skin. The cotton sheet was settled on top of him except for wherever the hands worked, gently dabbing an ointment onto his cuts. It smelled sharp, but fresh, with an underlying cool quality that cleared his head, stealing away the pain as muscles he had not realized were tensed relaxed, reveling in the cessation of the endless torment he had been living with. He groaned in pleasure, ignoring the laughter that gained him as he tried to decide if he were comfortable enough to slip back into sleep even with the hands still moving him. 

Dreams were just playing at the edges of his consciousness, pleasant memories of hunting with his brother in the woods of Ered Luin, when someone touched his damaged shoulder. The pain returned with a roar, blazing through him with such strength that he screamed, unable to stifle the instinct. Rings of raw fire encircled his wrists and ankles while his shoulder throbbed in time with his too fast heart, leaving him squirming in a futile attempt to get away. Stone, he needed to find the stone, cool and unyielding, to hide until his tormentors went away! Voices shouted all around, harsh, demanding, urgent, too loud, but he could not move to block them out.

"What's wrong with him? What did you do?" 

Fíli, panicked and angry, allowing his royal tone to take over, pulled his brother back from the brink of surrendering to the inviting stone. 

"We didn't do anything, it's that horrid mixture they forced down him! Thank Mahal Kifir and Ori had enough presence of mind to swipe one of the skins they left, or we would have no idea how to treat him! Talk to him, keep him with us!"

His longing had some effect, however, for a rumble sounded, the bed he was on shaking slightly.

“Kíli! Fight it! You cannot hold yourself to the stone now! Let it go!”

Fíli’s desperation tugged at him, warring with the instinct to flee the pain, go away. He had been raised to listen to his brother, however, the ingrained habits of childhood stronger than any inhuman rock. Kíli fought to break the tie he could sense to the floor and walls surrounding them, making an effort to thrust away the stone that came at the merest thought, much easier than it ever had before. He could not give in! Stone was bad, bringing more heat and illness!

"Shhh... It’s okay, Kíli, just breathe through it. Stay with us, little brother! I’m here, I won’t leave…"

Lips pressed against his forehead as a whiff of mint distracted him momentarily from the agony consuming his body. Liquid splashed on his face, running down his cheek and tickling the skin, but he could not move enough to wipe it away. Without the buffer of the stone, the pain was overwhelming him, trapping him in unending agony that would not abate.

"Easy, love, easy... Can you not give him more for the pain?"

"Mother?"

He could do no more than mouth it between gritting his teeth to trap the screams, though soft moans escaped; the whimpers of a babe. This was almost worse than those horrific hours in Laketown, caught in the throes of the morgul poison. Several more drops of warm water hit his face as Dis let out a little laugh that was half sob.

"I'm here, Kíli." 

"Lady, we cannot give him a pain draught with the herbs already in his system. The stress could stop his heart. Keep talking to him, try to keep him focused on you. The pain should ease again soon."

A hand pushed back tangled hair as he hissed, tensing at someone else spreading ointment on his wrists and wrapping them in cloth. He knew it was more of that fine cotton, but it felt coarse and itchy to him just now. He squirmed about some more, longing to rip it off and dig his nails into skin to stop the crawling sensation, but knew he could not.

"Kíli! Focus on me. Fíli is here, too. Thank Mahal your fever is staying down, at least."

Well, that was good. Why did healers always have to fuss so? If they had just left him alone, allowed him to slip back into sleep when the pain had been all but gone-! He shuddered, desperate for anything to distract himself. Unable to form Iglishmêk words while his arms were held by the healers, he forced a broken whisper out.

"S-safe?"

Fíli snorted, and Dis gave a sigh. Both knew he was not asking about himself.

"Yes, everyone is safe."

He frowned as whomever was working on his bad shoulder finished, carefully placing his arm back across his chest. There was something about the vagueness of that answer that bothered him, someone he was overlooking.

"Fíli, can you lift him a bit so that I can wrap this?"

Wyvern's voice was right next to his ear, making him wince. Of course the healer had to wait until the pain was beginning to ebb again! Kíli braced himself, but as his brother lifted him to a seated position, the dizziness it provoked was worse than the pain. The fight moved from willing away the agony to keeping his stomach and its meager contents where they belonged. When his hand and arm were secure against his chest again, however, Fíli did not ease him back down, allowing him to settle against his chest instead. Kíli found his lips stretching into a hint of a smile as he turned his head into the leather and fur fringe of the coat his brother wore. 

Musky, with the tang of steel and oil overlaying the rich scent of the leather. A hundred childhood memories, mere snippets of time, ran through his mind, each centered on that unique scent of ‘Fíli’, all else receding into mere annoyances. How odd, that with his sight cut off, it was this smell that finally convinced something deep within him that he was safe. That this was not another hopeful hallucination. Tears pricked his eyes under the bandages, burning a little as he nestled in closer, studiously ignoring the hands on his legs and feet. Thankfully, Fíli did not say a word, content to hold him close and allow Kíli to get his bearings. 

There had always been an unself-conscious closeness to their relationship well beyond what was normal between even dwarrow siblings. A pat on the back, a hug, the ruffling of hair, a steady presence behind him as they awaited foes, he was used to his brother touching him, counted upon it as an unspoken reassurance that all was well, a dozen non-verbal messages passed between the two in seconds. It was as well that they had married twins who shared a similar closeness, or their wives may have become jealous, causing contention within the family. 

Austri and Vestri, however, had seemed to accept it without it even needing to be discussed, scoffing at any who tried to make more of it than a very tight sibling bond. To them, it was as natural as breathing to finish one another’s thoughts, or ask a question with a glance. When the quartet was together, he had it on very good authority that outsiders found it rather disconcerting, for the two sets of siblings simply widened their bond to include the other pair, forging a circle of mithril that could not be broken. When one spoke, all within Erebor knew without question that it was the voice of all four that they heard.

He sensed someone moving close to crouch in front of them and almost pulled away, but that hint of mint and fresh spring air reassured him. Their mother would never dare to pull one from the other right now. Dis liked to put athelas in her clothes chests to scent them, so the clothing flooded the air with it whenever she moved. The plant, of course, gave off a slightly different scent to all who encountered it, and for Kíli, it had always been a mountain morning, with pine, lilac, and a hint of mint on the breeze. The smooth rim of a cup touched his lips, taking him by surprise. He instinctively jerked away, the feel of the water skin being cruelly jammed in still too fresh.

"It's just broth, love."

HIs stomach gave a rumble at that, making several of the healers laugh. Someone drew the cotton blanket back over him and added another one. Body reveling in the soft warmth from both blankets and the dwarf at his back, he sighed, glad they seemed to be done. One shaky hand came up to collide with his mother's.

"L-let me?"

It was half-plea, half-demand. He did not want to lie here placidly anymore, allowing someone else to feed him, even Dis. Fíli jiggled behind him, and it took a moment to realize his brother was silently laughing as their mother let out a long-suffering sigh.

"Well, there's the Kíli we know and love!"

Fíli gleefully noted, giving him a gentle hug. 

"Hmmm..." Dis made a hum of agreement, but she guided his hand around the clay vessel. "How about a compromise? You can hold it with my help. You really don't need another bath just now, especially of beef broth."

"'Kay."

He was running out of energy to talk, so he concentrated on keeping the hand she guided with the cup steady. The calluses from her leather working tools were rough against his sensitized skin. She must have been working long hours on something to distract from having 'her boys' gone on another dangerous quest.

The broth was rich and meaty on his tongue, flavor exploding in his mouth and almost making him moan in pleasure. There was an underlying tartness to it, however, that clung to his throat after swallowing and he frowned, suddenly suspicious. His mother tsked at the hesitation.

"It's what few herbs they can give to help with the fever and aid you to sleep again. You need the rest and nourishment, Kíli."

He obediently accepted another mouthful, though he was a bit put out. How much more sleep could he get before life started to slip past without him? Besides, the very thought of being alone in the darkness once more... His hand tightened, keeping the now empty cup, and his mother's hand, near.

"N-not alone?"

"Oh, love..."

Dis cupped one cheek, pressing a kiss into it as Fíli hugged him from behind again.

"Never, Kíli, unless you ask us to. One of us will be here."

Good. The pressure in his chest eased as the fear subsided, his body beginning to feel oddly light, as if he could float away on the next breeze. Clearly, whatever herbs the healers had felt comfortable giving him were beginning to work. He just wished he could roll his head to the side, watching the night candle slowly burn down as he had as a child. He hated the darkness so; it made him feel alone and vulnerable, as he had when Therin-

Therin!

The shock of memory was enough to make him gag, the broth threatening to make a reappearance despite his hasty swallows to keep it in place. Had it really happened? His own brother deliberately leaving him vulnerable to their enemies? Mahal, could it not have been a hallucination like so much else?

"Therin?"

The name was a bare whisper on lips that did not wish to produce sound, to confirm his fears, as he was eased back onto the padded wool. He felt Fíli’s involuntary flinch at the question, then his brother was running his hand through his still damp hair again. 

"Kíli, now is not the time."

Unable to speak further, Kili's hand blindly latched onto leather and metal, giving an insistent tug with what little strength he had left. He must know what they had done with him! The drugs were tightening their own pull, threatening to send him back into sleep without the answer he must have. His brother gently disentangled his fingers, laying them back under the blankets with a pat.

"Alright, but only because I know you won't let this go. He admitted what he had done and awaits judgment, serving with the regular warriors under a pledge of honor until then. He can wait until you are well enough to deal with such things."

The brunette nodded, letting himself sink down into the slumber that he craved. It was good that they were not keeping Therin imprisoned. Imprisonment meant torture and death, a fate he would not condemn anyone to, no matter how they had wronged him. But that was not right, his still mildly fevered mind whispered. His kin would not treat a prisoner as orcs did. His brother must have misunderstood his reaction, because Fíli’s aghast reaction pulled Kíli back from sleep slightly.

"You cannot allow him to simply walk away! Kíli, you were almost killed!"

He barely had the energy left to shake his head, the sharp exchange between his mother, Fíli, and a deeper voice no longer kept him from rest. The half-sleep he drifted into, however, trapped him once more in that weird realm where his mind somewhat worked, but his body did not.

For a moment, fear descended, but a distant murmur reassured him that he was not alone. The problem of Therin nagged, festering like a heat blister that he knew he should not touch, but could not help himself. He just wanted all the strife and bad feelings to end! 

Peace...

He knew it was the one thing that was impossible now. He had allowed his impetuous brother to escape the consequences of his actions once before, and Therin had learned nothing. Fíli would wish for a harsh punishment, though he would not press his views upon Kíli beyond urging him to make sure justice was done. Some part of Kíli screamed that Therin would deserve it, too, reveling in the idea of sharing the pain he had gone through. It would show the little brat just what he had done in a way nothing else could. Yes, vengeance would be good.


	39. Scales of Justice Tipped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kili must weigh justice versus vengeance...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

39\. Scales of Justice Tipped

Vengeance.

Funny how that word no longer left a sour taste in his mouth, despite the pain it had visited upon the Line of Durin. He had spent much of his life hating the idea, railing against any who urged it upon him. Though any dwarrow who heard him say that, even some of his own kin, would think him very odd. Dwarrow were raised to revere the notion, taking it to their breast and nursing it as tenderly as a mother would a newborn babe. They would seek it to the last drop of blood, across unimaginable distances, and long past the point where the original insult was lost to history. It was the way of their race. 

And yet, Kíli had always questioned what use it was. Did the death of another bring back the one you had lost? Or the whipping of a thief at the post make a stolen loaf of bread worth eating? Had not vengeance prevented them from working together when the armies of the dark threatened Erebor? Better justice then vengeance!

But what was justice, truly? And would it not just as surely rip his family apart, were he to stay by the ancient laws? He almost sobbed in frustration. Why his mind would not stop, allow him to rest in peace for a time, he did not know. That was all he wanted! Nearby, a low voice began to sing a lament for the destruction caused by Smaug that he had first heard in Laketown. Odd, it was not like his uncle to sing the songs of Men, though perhaps it suited his mood just now. It certainly fit Kili’s mind set as he lay, drifting with the words and slow melody of the song.

Fire had rained down, screams echoing through the night as Fíli yelled at him, pulling at his arm. He had been too exhausted to stay upright without help, even with the boost of adrenaline given by the sight of the fell creature in the sky above. Fíli had done what he had to, pulling and cajoling, looking after his brother as he always did, even when he could have more easily fled by himself. That was what brothers were supposed to do. Guard an exposed back, comfort one another, and reach out a hand when others would turn away. That was family.

Funny, when they rejoined the company at the mountain, it had been Balin’s eyes that shown with tears at the word that he had almost died of poison. And it had been Dwalin’s that lit up with fierce pride at how they navigated through the burning town, aiding and defending where they could. Thorin had barely paused in his search through the heaps of treasure, only listening as he wolfed down a bit of food. 

Kili’s head thrashed on the pillow, trying to thrust away the sight of Thorin’s dead, greedy eyes, coldly turning away from his own kin when they pleaded exhaustion at his urges to aid him in finding the Arkenstone. He had never remembered that part of the quest before. Instead, it had been Balin who fussed over them, wrapping an extra blanket about Kíli so that he would not take a chill and urging the other three returnees to rest and eat as well.

Balin, who had been unwilling to trust Elrond with the map of Thrain, yet was angry when Thorin’s insults cut off any chance of a deal with Thranduil. What would his old teacher say about Therin? Just now, Kíli desperately missed that white-bearded dwarf, with his steady temper and kindly twinkle in the eye as a few soft words shamed the worst miscreant! He seemed to always be there when Kíli needed him the most; willingly answering the questions that his mother and uncle could not or would not, sheltering a troubled dwarfling struggling with the conflict of maturity versus childhood, even aiding with sword lessons when Dwalin grew impatient with his clumsiness. With that on his mind, Kíli finally was pulled into sleep, though his dreams remained troubled.

_Thorin’s Halls, Ered Luin, Kíli age 22_

_Kíli wrinkled his nose up as he slouched in his seat at the scholar’s table, wishing he had a beard to hide a scowl. If his teacher saw such a thing, he was sure to report it to his uncle, and then Kíli would really be in trouble. Thorin had warned him that if he showed Balin disrespect one more time, the punishment would be severe._

_It was not that he disliked his older cousin and teacher; it was the lessons that Kíli detested, though they were not quite so intolerable when shared with some of the other dwarflings, especially Fíli. Now, though, when Balin insisted upon it being only the two of them… Well, it was shaping up to be an exceedingly long, boring morning._

_If Kíli were lucky, he would at least be able to force himself to stay awake, and not be scolded for that, too! All it would take was one bad word from Balin to his mother or uncle, and he would not be allowed a treat after supper tonight, and they had the little maple sugar shapes his mother had spent yesterday molding! Kíli dearly loved the stuff, allowing it to melt on his tongue in a burst of sweetness, and his mother knew it, using it to force Kili's sullen obedience to these special lessons. Having been refugees, no dwarf of Erebor would ever think to deny a dwarfling his meal, but such treats were another matter entirely._

_The dwarfling sighed heavily, trying to guess what his other, much more exciting, special lesson might be about this afternoon. Thorin had offered hospitality to a healing Ranger that he knew in exchange for lessons for his younger nephew. So far, Steel had taught him many things about tracking and survival in the wilderness, staying close to the halls because his leg had not yet healed enough for longer trips. Today, though, he had promised his eager young student his first lesson in archery!_

_"Kíli!"_

_Balin spat out the name with the force of a drover's lash, making the dwarfling squeak in fright as he was broken from the enticement of fresh air and arrows whistling in flight. Kíli turned guilty eyes on the grey bearded dwarf, bracing himself for an expected cuff to the back of the head. Balin's face, however, was warring between sternness and amused tolerance, his good nature winning out with a wink at his student._

_"I know, lad. This is a miserable way to spend a beautiful spring morning, but Arathorn will be waiting for you when we finish, never you fear. That one knows of the responsibilities of bloodline and station."_

_Kíli blinked, confused by the name, though he was fairly certain Balin was talking about the Ranger._

_"Who?"_

_Balin laughed, ruffling his hair._

_"Steel. The Ranger your uncle bribed to stay here. If you had paid attention when Thorin introduced him, you would know that his proper name is Arathorn; and if you listened to my lessons on the history of Middle Earth, you would know the significance of that name and why it is so seldom given to outsiders. It is a high honor the Rangers give your house, agreeing to stay here awhile and teach you."_

_"Oh."_

_Kíli thought about that for a long moment, trying to remember ever hearing the name mentioned in a lesson. As far as he knew, the Ranger was just someone who had helped the Erebor dwarrow when they traveled through Arnor to settle here, a rare enough courtesy for one of the race of Men._

_"If his second name is secret, why would he give it to us? Do men not keep such things close to their hearts as we do?"_

_His confusion was at least partially feigned, as he knew very well that Men did not have inner names given from Mahal as dwarrow did. If he could divert Balin onto another topic long enough-_

_"Oh, no, you don't, my lad! There will not be any stories and wasted hours today!" Balin laughed at his disappointment. "No, you are the second prince, with special duties all your own, and it is time you began to prepare for them."_

_Wait a minute! That was what Balin, Thorin, and his mother were wasting his morning for? He already knew all this! A thrill of hope ran through him as the brunette pursed his lips, trying to bring to mind exactly what he knew so that he could recite them. Once Balin found that he already knew his duties, he would be free! Maybe helping a sickly Ori learn his lessons out of those stuffy old history books of Dori's would have benefits after all!_

_Standing, Kíli cleared his throat, launching into recitation before a startled Balin could stop him._

_"A second son born to the royal family is a sign of Mahal's blessing, second only to a daughter. He is to be the rock and shield upon which his brother stands or is sheltered by, as needed. For he should be trained to the arms from a young age, taking no other occupation, protecting the crown prince in situations where a low-born guard would be improper. Confidant, protector, judge when necessary. This is the path of a second prince, to walk so long as he may live.”_

_“Aye, and did the text you just so glibly quoted speak more upon the role of judge?”_

_Kíli frowned, trying to bring the words to mind, but he had become hopelessly lost in the archaic language soon after that, and then Ori fell asleep. The last thing that the dwarfling wanted to do was wake the ailing young scholar for something so trivial, especially with Dori skulking about in the other room of the small home. Ori needed his rest to recover that is what Óin had told them._

_“No, not that I understood.”_

_Might as well bring it out in the open. Balin was one of the few dwarrow who never found shortcomings in Kili’s ignorance, just an opportunity to teach. Of course, that also meant any chance of escaping with a shortened lesson was gone…_

_“When there is a younger prince, it is traditionally his job to not only oversee the defenses of the kingdom, but also to hold court for grievances not severe enough to warrant the personal attention of the king. Your mother, Dis, and I have shared this role for some years now. Unlike other courts, where it takes the approval of three of the five elders seated in judgment, in the Prince’s Court, his word is final. That is why you must not only know the laws well, young Kíli, but also be very careful to think through any judgment you make. Most of the cases brought to you will be interracial disputes and the serious crimes short of treason. Only the King may overrule you, and that is almost never done. Now, what are the crimes in dwarrow society punishable by death? And is there any alternative to that punishment?”_

_“Murder, rape, intentional serious injury to a child, including holding them captive, and treason, which includes the raising of a hand to the royal family.”_

_Kíli tried to imagine why anyone would not invoke death for anything upon that horrifying list. After all, it was only that last law that had prevented any number of deliberate injuries on the part of dwarflings who hated him. Instead, they used their tongues to good effect, as well as whatever they could get away with on the practice field, which thankfully wasn’t much under Dwalin’s keen gaze._

_It was when the huge armsmaster was away with Thorin that Kíli truly ran into trouble. It hurt deeper than anyone knew, those taunts about his stature, weapon choice, even his smooth face. Sometimes, it was too much, and he had to get away, to hunt, run through the trees, play a joke, anything to release the anger and hurt, even if others chided his actions as reckless. Far better that than to be caught weeping in a dark corner somewhere and confirm all their derisive words! He dreamed, sometimes, of making them hurt as much as he did, but he knew that it would solve nothing._

_“The punished who do not see the justice in their punishment only grow angrier, seeking further revenge.”_

_Blinking, Kíli surfaced abruptly from his thoughts, gaping at his teacher._

_“What?”_

_Balin smiled sadly, resting a hand on his shoulder._

_“I know that you wish revenge, Kíli, but you must always think ahead first. You are not a regular dwarf. Any actions that you take will always reflect upon your family and heritage. That is not to say that you must always show mercy. There are times that it is not only dangerous, but teaches nothing. Finding that fine line is what we will be spending quite a few lessons doing, mostly by reading through old cases. In all of this, you must first ask why someone took the action they did. Perhaps then you will best know how to deal with them.”_  
  
As his old teacher’s face faded and the injured prince settled at last into restful slumber, that one word beat through his mind over and over. 

Why?

*****888******

Thorin and Fíli came often over the next several days, talking quietly, as unemotionally as they could, about what had happened. About those who had lost their lives searching for him, and of a cult leader who had once been his uncle. When he slept, the nightmares would not abate, leaving him tired and irritable with those trying to heal him.

The healers would work quickly, whispering to one another of ‘Warrior’s Heart, trauma, and the different infusions of herbs they wished to try after they were certain his system was cleared of the foul mix he had been given by his captors. Kíli was never certain, afterward, if they realized he had heard every word, despite the stupor that lack of rest and the drugs had forced him into once again. It was not aided by the tension that descended when Vili and Dis were in the room together. His fever rose and fell, but never to the level that had forced the healers to submerge him in the tub for long periods of time, which was about the only relief he had.

He was so very, very tired of war and pain, physical or emotional. Yet it felt as if lightning was charging the air, waiting for an opening to strike once more, tearing apart his life anew. And it was all because of family.

Fíli wanted vengeance, in all its pain and tears, that much was clear. The anger he tried so hard to suppress in him words came across clearly to one who had spent his entire life with the elder, mostly in tone as Kíli still had not been allowed to take the bandages from his eyes. Yet he did not need sight to see the tightening of a muscle, a facial tick, or the white knuckles that Fíli surely sported when the topic of their younger brother was brought up. In his own trauma, Kíli feared that the blonde would actually be arguing for execution should he believe the brunette would listen.

Vili asked for absolute absolution in the same fervent tones, though Kíli did not know this strange, somewhat bitter uncle in the way he did Thorin. After the accident that claimed his brother’s life, and almost his own, Vili had spent a time hiding from even his family, living alone in a remote part of the Blue Mountains. When he had returned, he was a stranger to the growing young dwarrow he called nephews, and their separation after the reclaiming of Erebor had only heightened that distance.

In the middle were Dis and Thorin, the royal siblings seeming to take extra care not to influence Kíli in either direction. It was frustrating, listening as the two danced so carefully around their own opinions, even when he bluntly asked for them. Both had said that as both ruling prince and the wronged, it must be him alone who decided upon the outcome of this, for he was the only one who had lived it. He knew the law, and what was permissible, it was up to his own conscience to decide what was right.

It was only when he woke late one night, his soul at peace and body limp with exhaustion, that he finally found his answer and allow rest to fully claim him.


	40. Laughter and Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kili heals and Thorin begins to see a path ahead...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
> 
> Author’s Notes: Thank you to all of you for your support and patience while I was gone for so long, unplanned. Life gets a bit crazy sometimes!

39\. Laughter and Tears 

Thorin paused outside the small healing room, stealing himself for what was to come. Ori had asked to see him, most likely to tell of the fate of the colony, and while Thorin burned to know what had occurred… Well, the scribe was not physically injured, but his years of isolation after watching the deaths of all his company had profoundly affected his mind. Senata had quietly told Thorin that the little dwarf might never fully recover, relapsing into hallucinations and living in the past when stressed. It was for that reason that Thorin had held off, no matter how many urged him to demand answers for the tragedy that had taken place here.

Before the king could announce his presence outside the rough wool that served as a door to Ori’s sickroom, however, Nori popped his head out, seeming as startled to see Thorin as the king was to see the former thief. The now white haired dwarf grunted and vanished back into the room, the murmur of voices bleeding through the blanket. After several minutes, he came fully outside, giving Thorin a solemn nod of the head.

“How is he?”

Thorin asked, concerned by the troubled, red-rimmed eyes of his spymaster. Finding out that Ori had been alive and alone for so long had not been easy on the last brother, no matter how he tried to make it seem that nothing bothered him.

“Not good. He’s been having trouble telling reality from fantasy all morning. Thorin, I know that you and the others need answers, but-“

Nori shook his head, causing Thorin to curse under his breath. He had hoped that being sent for was a sign that the scribe was actually doing better. The king sighed, shrugging heavily.

“I will not intrude, then, and unsettle him further. Were you able to get any of the-“

Nori cut off the king’s question by holding up a rolled piece of parchment, which Thorin gratefully accepted.

“Every tunnel he knows of is on there, including the blocked ones, all neatly done in colored ink to tell which is what. He still has his talent with maps, that’s for certain, though he swears one led out to an overgrown pocket valley that showed signs of cultivation, so I’m not sure how reliable it all is. He claims he would forage for food there, and found dwarrow made farm tools, which is ridiculous. Everyone knows dwarrow don’t farm.”

Thorin snorted, unsurprised by Nori’s skepticism. The very idea of dwarrow toiling in the soil like elves or hobbits was unnatural! Even as refugees after the fall of Erebor, they had been able to barter work for most of their food, and hunt the rest. All the new memories he had gained, however, had quickly taught him how many important details were never recorded, or dismissed by a later generation if they were.

“The hidden valleys were used when the city was sealed off during the latter part of the Second Age.” The king grimaced, the vehement protestations of long ago ringing in his ears as they had once rung in Durin III’s. “The west was overrun by Sauron’s creatures save for a few pockets of resistance, and half the east was loyal to Mordor. Gondor and Rohan did not yet exist, so the dwarrow were unable to bring in enough food by barter alone, and had to resort to other means. Besides, Durin III wished to secure a food supply should the city find itself besieged upon both sides, which seemed likely at the time. Sauron had no love for dwarrow, being, for the most part, unable to bend them to his will.”

“Who did he find to work it? Any self-respecting dwarf would sooner starve!”

Nori’s indignant question made Thorin grin at the former thief wickedly.

“I am glad you asked that. First, you would be surprised at what you would do had you truly no other choice. Second, Durin found that it was a fit punishment for anyone committing a crime, as such things risked the safety of the city in a time of war. Those unwilling to give the labor or money the king asked for found themselves also tilling fields as their contribution. You would be amazed at how generous and honest the citizens of Khazad-dûm became!”

The other dwarf blanched, glancing quickly around as if fearing the king’s horrific answer would be overheard.

“Don’t tell Dwalin that, I beg you! He’d try to reinstate it. And what of the warriors? With the city sealed, they must have been the fattest, laziest bunch around!”

Thorin snorted again, vastly amused. No wonder Dwalin and Nori never got along, if that was his opinion of the big warrior’s chosen work!

“Oh, no, you would be wrong, my friend. When not training or guarding one of the small parties allowed to travel outside the city, they were required to aid. Especially at harvest time, though they did most of the butchering of livestock raised there instead of picking crops. Putting a knife in the hands of a criminal would not be smart.” Thorin tilted his head toward the door. “Thank your brother for drawing this, and keep me apprised of how he is doing.”

“Gladly.” Nori turned away, partially pushing aside the blanket before turning back. “Thorin, how is Kíli? Ori keeps asking, but the healers won’t tell us anything. Senata fears the visit Ori paid him a few days back might have triggered more hallucinations.”  
In his turn, the king glanced down the hallway to another blanket-draped room, where a dwarf warrior stood, a silent sentinel on guard.

“Better. The fever has stayed down and he sleeps a great deal. The bandages on his eyes should be removed tomorrow or the day after. Wyvern believes that being held captive in the dark much of the time probably prevented permanent damage to his sight. He’ll be sensitive to bright light for a while yet, however.”

“And his other injuries?”

“Healing well, even the shoulder. The healers are more concerned with that swill he was forced to drink. They want him kept calm, quiet, and resting in bed for another two weeks.”

“Calm and quiet?!”

Nori spluttered before dissolving into outright laughter, which did nothing to aid Thorin’s sour mood. It was nearly the identical reaction Fíli had to the directive. Abruptly, the blanket to Ori’s room was thrust completely back, revealing a baffled Bofur with Ori tentatively peeking under his arm. At the sight of his brother’s mirth, the scribe came fully out from behind the councilor, only to freeze as he became aware of the presence of the dwarf king. One hand came up in the familiar gesture from the first time they had seen Ori again, stopping just short of touching Thorin’s face. Bofur had one hand tightly squeezing the scribe’s shoulder, whispering urgently in his ear as the king stood there, unsure of what to do.

“R-real?” Ori whimpered plaintively, “W-why haven’t I seen you?”

Thorin allowed a slight smile to soften his stern countenance, taking the hesitant hand in his.

“Yes, Ori, I am real. I am sorry I have not been to see you. The healers felt you needed quiet. Which your brother is hardly providing, given the way he’s howling and acting the idiot.”

The first unforced smile Thorin had witnessed graced Ori’s face then, and the scribe shook his head, eyes lighting up.

“N-no, I like laughter. Orcs don’t laugh. W-what… Why is he laughing?”

Thorin sighed, unable to deny the simple request, though he knew the reaction it was likely to engender.

“The healers wish to keep Kíli bed bound for two more weeks so he stays calm and quiet. The herbs he was given might otherwise still cause damage to his body.”

Sure enough, Bofur guffawed, slapping his knee so hard he almost dislodged his hat.

“Ya cannot tell me Senata actually said that! Does she not realize the chaos a bored Kili can cause?”

“She knows, Bofur, but there are few other options short of moving him to the elven wood, and Fíli flatly refused to allow that to even be considered. He knows how Kíli would react to such a forced retreat. There is too much risk that activity could cause Kíli to faint and injure himself further. Something about the way blood flows through the body and the herbs adversely affecting it.”

Thorin shook his head, grimacing at his lack of understanding, though these were among the few dwarrow he would admit such a failing to. Ori’s eyes, however, had lit up in understanding and sympathy. As a sickly youth, he, too, knew the restlessness and shortened temper that came with such confinement, though he lacked Kili’s creative streak. 

Last winter, Thorin had gone to check on his nephew after the incident with the toy only to be almost skewered with a small throwing knife. The prince had attached a light line to it and was using it as a grappling hook to pull things across the room to himself. Dis had despaired of finding a way to repair the chips out of the furniture, though Vestri had thought her husband unspeakably clever. So long as he promised never to show the boys, of course. Bofur leaned against the doorframe, a smirk firmly in place.

“If he’s getting well enough to become restless, why don’t we do what we did in Minas Tirith? Surely a bit of laughter won’t hurt the lad!”

Thorin nodded.

“That was Fili’s thought, as well. I trust you can spread the word to appropriate ears?”

“Oh, aye!”

*****888*****

Kíli roused only occasionally for some time after finally settling into peaceful sleep, mostly at the prodding of one of the healers intent upon making him drink yet more herbs, but at least he was able to fall quickly back into slumber each time, despite an aching body. Time was beginning to bring healing in more than just his spirit, but the ordeal and subsequent fevers had drained the prince of energy, so he slept. 

Fíli was always nearby when he woke. More than once, the brunette roused just enough to hear his brother chasing off someone he felt might disturb the ailing prince, including members of their own family. That was good; he had had enough talk of Therin, crimes and punishments, the horrors he had been through. All he wanted was peace, and maybe a bit of company who would not speak of what had happened. 

Perhaps he said that wish aloud, for when he finally woke without the desire to immediately return to slumber, stomach rumbling its discontent once more, it was to find the air laden with a delicious odor and the cheerful babble of multiple voices. It sounded as if his quiet sickroom had been invaded by a horde! Off-hand, his sleep-fuzzy mind was able to pick out his mother, Thorin, Fíli, Bofur, and Dwalin, then Legolas’ laughter rang out. Well, that meant Tauriel was there. Those two were never far apart these days. 

Moving carefully, the prince struggled to press himself into a seated position one handed, feeling someone aiding him patiently. A soft bulk was scooted behind him and he leaned back gratefully into the support that held him partially upright.

“About time you woke up, lazy bones. How are you feeling?”

Something warm was pressed into his hand and Kíli smiled faintly as he took a sip from the mug, pleased to find that it was filled with a thick chicken broth. His brother knew only too well how badly his younger sibling’s stomach reacted to fevers! He sipped, nodding at Fíli when the first bursts of flavor and warmth travelled to his stomach without provoking the crippling nausea he always feared.

“So far, not bad. What’s going on?”

At least his voice was actually audible, though a very rough, hoarse croak.

“We’ve been presented with a challenge, laddie.” It was Dwalin’s voice, sounding entirely too smug about something. A moment later, Kíli knew what and wished he did not. “Telling of the most idiotic things we’ve ever heard of someone, including ourselves, doing. The elves seem to think they know of one that will top all others!”

Kíli instantly felt his face begin to burn, as there were plenty of stupid things he had done in the past that could very well have been brought up by now.

“O-oh?”

He stuttered a bit, and heard his brother’s low, wicked chuckle. Fíli never had much trouble reading him.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t brought that one up. Yet.”

Kíli could only hope that Fíli had in mind something other than what he feared. Swallowing hastily, he choked a bit on the broth, and then attempted to sound completely casual.

“What’s been brought up so far?”

“Dwalin started with that bunch of idiots back in Ered Luin who tried nipping apples off each other’s heads with their axes.” Bofur was entirely too cheerful at the entire idea as Kíli winced, unable to fend off the image of the fellow dwarf who had his scalp shorn off in that stunt. That was one way to become instantly bald! “And I mentioned Lord Elrond feeding hungry dwarrow with naught but bread and vegetables-“

“I don’t like green food, it just isn’t right.”

Several of the gathering laughed at Ori’s plaintive comment while Kíli felt his lips quirk in a hint of a smile at the familiar voice. It was still difficult for him to believe that the other was truly alive after all this time. Setting the empty mug next to him, he reached out, feeling a warm hand take his own and squeeze it lightly, though there was a tremor there. Ori was nowhere near as relaxed with all the others surrounding him as he wished the others to believe. He knew better than to offer to ask the others to leave, though.

“Aye, we know, Uncle.” Nast spoke up cheerfully, “So, who’s next? Fíli and Kíli?”

A body settled next to him and he leaned into the familiar warmth of his older brother, already feeling more secure in his dark world. Fíli would not allow anyone to approach without warning. Had his brother orchestrated this just for him? How had he known when Kíli would wake? Regardless, he would not waste his brother’s gift by bringing up Therin, the cult, or anything else remotely relevant to their current situation, reveling instead in the distraction.

“Well, there was the time Kíli went looking for fair-“

“Fíli!”

Kíli was quick to lash out with one foot, catching his brother on the leg even without being able to see him. There was nothing stupid or funny about that episode!

“I have one.” Tauriel cut into the awkward resulting silence, and Kíli stiffened, hoping it wasn’t that inane trick he had played on her with the rune stone. “Thirteen dwarrow and one hobbit believe they can take on a dragon.”

Kíli could feel the tension heighten in the sudden silence, everyone holding their breath waiting for a response. Thorin’s voice had been one of the easiest for the prince to pick out in his half-awake state, and he bit back a groan, trying to decide why the elf felt the need to bring up such a thing now. Surely she knew that the only result would be to enrage Thorin!

“You would be accurate in that assessment, Captain, had I ever meant to actually confront Smaug with so small a company. That, however, was never my intent. More like… a series of unfortunate events that necessitated some fast adjustments.”

Startled, Kíli tensed in astonishment, feeling his brother do the same, for this was news to the two princes. The youngest of the pair was the first to broach the topic, tone cautious as his stomach tightened in suddenly recalled guilt. Was Tauriel trying to torment him?

“Uncle, you told us-“

"Think for a moment, Kíli. I would hardly go about declaring my intentions openly when I knew that there were those who would oppose me. The intention was always for Bilbo to go in and steal the Arkenstone. With that in hand, I would have the right to command the seven armies of the dwarrow families - plenty of warriors with which to take on a dragon and secure the mountain afterward."

"Which would be necessary given the attitude of my father and the pursuit by Azog's orcs." Legolas broke in, considering for a moment before continuing with a question that almost made the dwarf prince gag. "And those orcs? How did Azog learn of your plans?"

If Kíli could have melted into the stone physically at this point, he would have, though a core of anger burned bright within as well. Tauriel had given her pledge to say nothing, yes, but in the manner of elves, she had simply gotten someone else to bring it up! Why had he thought to trust her? The prince sat in tense silence unable to even turn his head toward his companions lest the guilt written upon his face betray his secret. There was a contemptuous snort from Thorin and he braced himself for the words he knew were coming.

"That, unfortunately, was easy enough. Frér, the main cult member within the Iron Hills, attended the meeting in Ered Luin with Dain. I told him myself just before the company began our quest, and he undoubtedly passed it on to Dol Guldur."  
It hit Kíli like a blow to the gut, leaving him gasping for air as his body slumped in utter shock. Could this truly be? That the guilt he had carried all those years-

"Kíli? What's wrong?"

He felt the stir of air and the weight of his brother’s arm settle reassuringly about his shoulders, but he could not move or answer, then someone had their hand about the back of his neck in a familiar touch.

“Kíli?”

His uncle’s voice was gentle as his breath blew on Kili’s face with the name and the prince bunched his jaw, trying desperately to hold back the flood tide of emotions surging through him. Nausea tightened in his stomach, threatening to send the soup back up as he brought his good arm across to clutch at the other in its bindings, pressing against his midsection.

“Easy, just breathe, Kíli… I will not mention orcs again, I am sorry. You are safe, nephew, just breathe…”

He longed to see Thorin’s face, to have that reassurance in more than words. He had always been a very visual person, especially for a dwarf, needing to see the actions and feelings to reinforce what he was told before his heart could accept. Then the words themselves intruded and Kíli had to bite his lip to stay his outburst.

Was he safe? Or was this just another hallucination, brought about by desperation? How could he tell? Tears stung his healing eyes, the bandages quickly growing soggy as arms encircled him from multiple directions and he leaned into their warm reassurance. A hand was stroking his hair, murmuring in his ear that he was safe, loved, wanted… 

The darkness was gone and would not be allowed to return.

As he calmed, footsteps sounded loud in his ears, though the cadence told him they should be mere whispers, the elves ever light footed.

“We will go, Thorin, so that-“

“No!”

The word burst from him, overriding Tauriel’s soft guilt in a harsh croak. He pulled his hand free from his brother to reach blindly for her, felt his limb gently squeezed in response.

“Please, no…” He was so tired, his body folding back to lay spent against whatever was serving to prop him up. “I need… this, right now.”

Kíli cursed his tangled tongue, settling for a vague wave back toward where he heard the fire that the others had undoubtedly been sitting around previously. Why must the words be stolen from him now, when he needed desperately for someone to understand? He could not be alone, needed the laughter and companionship more than water, or medicine, or even rest right now!

“Then you shall have it. Who has another to tell?”

Dis sounded strained, but the hand that ruffled his hair was playful.

“We do.”

Kíli frowned, not recognizing the two voices immediately.

“Elladan and Elrohir.”

His brother whispered to him as one of the twin elves laughed.

“Yes. This tale involves our father when we were in Minas Arnor for Arwen and Aragorn’s wedding and one of the more…pompous and arrogant of Aragorn’s new court. He came up to Father at the reception and loudly informed him that the legend of Elwing and Eärendil was just that- a story, made up long ago. He wanted to know why the elves kept insisting that such fairy tales were fact!”

Thorin snorted while several others chuckled. Kíli could only imagine the face Lord Elrond must have made at being informed that his parents did not exist! The other twin, who had a slightly heavier accent, took up the tale.

“Father just gaped at him. I’ve never seen him so affronted before, even when his dinner guests began throwing food and bathing nude in the fountain.”

“Served him right!”

“Well, they invited us to make use of the facilities-“

“Just a bit of fun-“

“You did what?!”

The side comments tangled together, and Kíli could no longer hold it in. He began to laugh, alternating with groans as his abused muscles and cuts objected to the jostling. An arm supported him as he began to list to one side, something soft held against his side to take some of the strain. As he fought to calm down and regain his breath, the amused elves continued.

“Fortunately, Mithrandir intervened, drawing the offensive man off or there might have been blood shed! Father will allow many insults to pass, but not one to his parents.”

“As his new king is a direct descendant of Elrond’s brother, such a statement was politically unwise as well.”

Thorin noted drily almost in Kili’s ear. It was only then that the prince realized one of those he was leaning on was his uncle.

“Definitely.” Faramir acknowledged. “I received an earful about that incident. Unfortunately for the lord in question, some other rather unsavory dealings he’d had came to light soon after and the man lost his head. A fate a rather drunken former soldier of the Citadel could only wish for. He walked up to the Queen out by the White Tree one day and propositioned her as the King stood nearby.”

“I gather he was dismissed for it, then?”

Fíli’s annoyed rumble came from Kili’s other side. It was not at all surprising, as a similar action in dwarrow society would have led to a duel at best, or possibly even a hearing in the Princes’ Court. Dwarrow were an exceedingly jealous and possessive race, whether it was treasure or kin.

“Not for the act, no. Arwen was actually rather flattered, and Aragorn could hardly discipline the man for something one of his companions had once done, and on their wedding day, no less.”

“Pippin.” Frodo confirmed, sounding less than amused. “Never allow him to drink elven wines.”

"So what was the man disciplined for?"

Kifir was understandably puzzled by that, though Kíli had a suspicion as to the answer.

"It was the third time he had been found drunk on duty, young Master Kifir."

There was a short silence as the dwarrow among them thought that one through. Once again, Kíli was struck by the differences between the races. For a dwarf, being drunk on duty was punishable, but it was by far the lesser offense. Finally, Kíli stirred, the perfect incident for this challenge suddenly coming to mind.

"I have one." The prince spoke into the silence. "Last fall a traveler tried paying several craft-dwarrow with gilded lead coins, passing them off as gold. He also tried bargaining with quartz cleverly cut to look like diamonds."

"In Erebor?" Legolas' astonishment was echoed by several others. "Was he mentally deficient?"

"More like insane." Dwalin scoffed, "No reasonable being could believe that such a folly would make it past dwarrow!"

"It wasn't a joke?" Faramir asked incredulously. "He actually believed he could trick a dwarf like that?"

"Oh, aye." Fíli chuckled. "We decided to banish him, as few would be gullible enough to fall for such things. After we confiscated all the coins and stones, of course. If he's caught again on Erebor or Dale land, he'll be branded on the hand. Foolish man."

Laughter erupted, along with several more creative suggestions about where the man should be branded or other possible punishments. Kíli, however, did not join in, simply reveling in the sounds of teasing and camaraderie. As the voice of his brother rose above the others in another story, he lay back, finally feeling the last of the tension drain from him. 

This was safety. This was home. And he finally felt able to do what he must in regard to Therin, no matter that it might yet tear apart his family. Waiting until his brother was done speaking and the others began debating who had won, Kíli allowed a soft murmur to carry only as far as Fíli’s ear.

“Brother, will you ask Thorin to summon the court for the day after tomorrow? It is time this was done.”

Fíli stirred against him, startlement clear.

“Are you sure? The cult has once again pulled back and seem to be waiting to see what we will do. Thorin is not pressing, either. You don’t have to do this immediately. Besides, the healers don’t want you out of bed for two more weeks.”

Kíli snorted, not bothering to voice his opinion on the wishes of the healers and what they could do with them. There was no way he would consent to laying around that long!

“I want this done.”

“Very well.”


	41. The Weight of Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the weight of justice is finally felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

40\. The Weight of Justice

Thorin surveyed the warriors gathered in the great hall as they shifted restlessly, waiting for the court to begin. The months of fighting had taken its toll upon all of them. Many showed evidence of healing wounds and all wore the weary expressions of those required to be constantly on alert for danger. The end, however, might finally be in sight, though he could not tell them.

Sharing the rough platform with the king were his older two nephews. Kíli was seated on a small camp stool, with Fíli directly behind. It looked as if the blonde prince was standing rigidly formal, but Thorin knew it was no ceremony that made him do it. Kíli was surreptitiously leaning back against him.

The younger prince’s red rimmed eyes shed involuntary tears whenever he glanced at a torch, but at least he could see again. Senata and Wyvern had both argued long and loud against putting their royal patient through such stress, but Kíli had insisted that there was no choice. The issue of Therin had festered long enough, threatening to divide the army, and since Thorin could not yet move to deal with the cult leader, he pushed to resolve this, instead. 

As it stood, there had been multiple skirmishes with the cult over the last seven days. Two of those had been large enough to count as small battles, with the casualties to match, but while victories, had been far from decisive. Frérin’s slash and run tactics were slowly drawing away Thorin’s strength without risking the cult’s position.

Yesterday, though, had finally given Thorin the first sparkles of a gem of an idea. Now he just needed to mine the rest of it out of the extraneous rock and hope there were not too many hidden flaws.

_Early evening, the previous day_

_Thorin crouched, waiting, the mithril ax in his hands glittering in the torch light while the reassuring weight of Orcrist pulled at his back. Ahead of him, several warriors were shifting debris from the doorway to the northern mithril mines, a critical part of reviving the ancient kingdom. With the aid of Ori’s tunnel map, the upper levels of the city were finally secure. The secret passages that the cult knew about were now blocked, and those they did not closely guarded while Thorin’s warriors used them. Now, both forces stood in stalemate, each refusing to give way while probing for weaknesses in the other._

_The cult had the advantage of numbers due to their goblin and orc allies, while Thorin had high ground and his knowledge of the secrets of Khazad-dûm to his. Still, the cult refused to stand and-_

_“’Ware!”_

_Dwalin’s shout was cut off in a pained scream, then a compact body slammed into the king, sending them both rolling. Thorin had a flash of sharp teeth in a black mouth, then his armored fist came around, braining the goblin in the temple. As the limp body collapsed on top of him, Thorin gagged on the fetid odor, pushing the creature aside. His hand had just closed on his ax once again when a huge man loomed over him, face painted in a hideous red and black mask._

_Huge hands grabbed him, lifting the king high over the Easterling’s head as he squeezed Thorin’s upper arms to still the king’s struggles. Before the man could toss the dwarf, however, two things happened to alter the fight. First, Thorin’s ax slipped from abruptly numb hands, dropping onto the giant’s shoulder. Any other metal might have hit with bruising force before clattering to the ground, deflected by the brute’s rough chainmail. Not mithril. It slid through the rusty metal links with the ease of a butter knife, biting deep into the tender flesh beneath. The man howled in rage and pain, ready to pummel the king for his misfortune when the second change occurred. What appeared to be a boulder to one side rose up, revealing an elf with bow at the ready. A twang and the brute was skewered by an arrow directly in the throat. As his captor toppled backwards like a felled tree, Thorin felt himself tumbling through the air to land with a gasp on the hard stone floor, weapons and armor sending up a horrific clatter. A hand appeared, pulling him easily upright to face the grinning elven prince._

_“I have been told that no one tosses a dwarf, least of all their king!”_

_With a cheeky grin at Thorin’s growl, Legolas turned back to the more serious work at hand, defending them both while Thorin wrenched his ax loose. Then they were both wading through blood and bodies, enemy faces a blur as new ones took the place of the fallen much too quickly for a mere chance encounter between rival patrols. The mithril ax split open both helmet and skull on an Uruk-hai, but became lodged. Thorin gave one tug, then abandoned it, Orcrist flashing a light trail of blue as it swept out of its sheath and through a gangly little goblin._

_“Look out!”_

_The yell was source less, but it jerked Thorin’s head up as he almost negligently swept aside a cult dwarf. The massive, bulky outline of a troll filled the doorway. Any hope that it was one of the almost mindless cave variety was swept aside as a huge voice boomed out._

_“Stand aside, boys, I’ll deal with this bunch! I have an excellent recipe for mixed dwarf and elf pie I’ve been meaning to try!”_

_Thorin groaned, wondering if all mountain trolls had cooking aspirations or if the Valar simply had a sick sense of humor today. Surely Mahal would not do such a thing to his first creation?_

_Einarr appeared at the king’s elbow with a roll of the eyes._

_“Just once, I’d like to meet a troll who prefers vegetables! Aim for his eyes!”_

_The directive was bellowed at the archers with them, including Legolas. Both dwarrow ducked as the iron spiked club whistled over their heads, the troll too busy swatting at arrows to pay much attention to his aim. The ground fighters were using the lull to organize into strike teams._

_“Here.”_

_The Blacklock shoved Durin’s Ax at the king, who grasped it gratefully. Orcrist was sharp, but nothing could match a mithril blade._

_“I’ll go low, you have a better chance of getting through that hide than I do.”_

_Even as they spoke, Thorin watched as a man dodged around the troll to strike at the legs with a sword while the dwarf he was paired with sprang off a debris pile, ax swinging. The troll swatted him into a wall with a clatter and bark of laughter.  
With a nod and a roar of their own, Einarr and Thorin raced forward. Einarr hunched over, allowing the king to spring off his head and shoulders to land a blow. The troll bellowed angrily, spitting out a tooth._

_“I’ll kill you for that, little dwarf!”_

_“You’re welcome to try!”_

_Thorin taunted back as Legolas literally ran part way up the wall to twist around in the air, thrusting a long bladed knife into the troll’s eye. The brute screamed in pain, huge hands letting go of the club to swing wildly as he covered the wound. It was what the other members of their little group had been waiting for, swarming their opponent. He would not be making his pie ever again._

_As the clatter of weaponry died down, the king glanced around, relaxing as he noted the absence of any more enemies. The other cult members had obviously taken the troll’s downfall as their signal to leave._

_“Where’s Dwalin?”_

_It was highly unusual not to have his shield brother at his side in combat, though Einarr had proven himself an acceptable substitute._

_“Took an arrow in the side early on. One of those needle point type intended to go through chainmail. Healer has him.”_

_Iari, a lord of the Broadbeams and old friend to both of the Erebor warriors, nodded back towards the door they had come through. Thorin swore softly, fear running down his nerves, for Dwalin must have been sorely wounded to have willingly left the field. How many more of his friends and kin would pay the price for this place? Was he falling into the same obsession that had taken his grandfather? Again?_

_“There’s another problem, Thorin.”_

_Iari cut into his thoughts with the reluctance of a bearer of ill news. Thorin snorted, heading toward the huddle of wounded surrounding the healer they had with them, Wyvern._

_“What?”_

_“Therin is missing.”_

_“No.” Wyvern pounced on the statement before Thorin could react, not bothering to look up from his patient. “Keep pressure on that and sit down for a few minutes.” As the dwarf he was tending scooted away, the healer finally glanced at the king, gesturing at another dwarf who was seated nearby, head down and a hand holding a bit of bandage to the back of it. “He stumbled over a moment ago with a head wound. Said he got hit early on and fell behind the boulders over there. Unlike certain others, he had the sense to stay down when the troll appeared.”_

_“Dwalin?”_

_Thorin demanded next, not seeing the large warrior anywhere._

_“I already sent him back to camp with the second patrol that came when they heard the fighting. The arrow head looked to have buried itself in a rib. Best let the elven healers deal with it in safety then here, where we might be attacked again at any moment. It’s not serious, but he won’t be fighting for a while.”_

******888******

It felt decidedly odd to be without the huge dwarf at his shoulder, negligently leaning on his war hammer as he glared at the restless crowd. In his place, Dwalin had assigned Einarr, to the surprise of all, especially the Blacklock. As silence fell over the gathering, all eyes turned to the royals, waiting. Nearby, an anvil was rhythmically struck, the sound making the non-dwarrow among them flinch.

Proceedings such as these were one of the few parts of dwarrow culture regularly seen by outsiders. Dwarrow justice was public, and often very messy. Thorin only hoped it went the way he had scripted with his nephews. Catching Fíli’s eye, however, the blonde gave him a sharp nod before leaning over to speak softly in his brother’s ear. Good enough. Best to start now, not waste any more time.

“Let Therin, son of Dis, grandson of Thrain, stand forth!”

Silent, the other warriors parted to allow the youngest prince to walk forward. His clothing was rich, as befitted a son of Durin’s blood, embroidered with his personal sigil around the hem and cuffs. Glancing to the right, Thorin saw the anguish upon the face of his sister and knew she had tried to stop the choice. Vili, however, had his eyes locked on Kíli, his nephew by blood and son by marriage, in open challenge. It seemed that the former miner was determined to make this as difficult as possible.  
Thorin shot his marriage-brother a warning glare before turning his attention to the miscreant before him. Therin’s chin was up, defiance and anger there in equal measure, while just a hint of pain from yesterday’s injury also lurked.

“You stand accused of endangering the life of Prince Kíli of Erebor through malicious intent and of collaboration with our enemy, both offenses punishable by death. However, the latter is somewhat mitigated by the mostly unwitting nature of your aid, though you still failed to report such treasonous words uttered against your own kin, a lapse that normally merits corporal punishment. Do you deny these accusations?”

For one moment, Thorin believed the boy about to break down, but then his stance stiffened, and the defiant petulance was back. There was fear in Therin now, but he did not allow his voice to falter.

“I stand by my oath. I took such actions, though I never intended to hand the prince to the enemy. All I sought was to give him his just due for the pain and dishonor he had heaped upon me!”

There was a murmur of shock and anger from the watching dwarrow. Thorin had to bite back the retort the arrogant little dwarfling so richly deserved for that, recognizing that Therin was obviously still caught up in the ‘I was wronged as a child, so it’s not my fault’ rot he had fed his father. Allowing his countenance to harden, the king decided to force his nephew’s hand.

“They were your decisions and actions, were they not? No other controlled nor threatened you!”

Therin scowled, flicking a contemptuous glance at his brothers before allowing his lip to curl into a sneer at the king.

“Yes, they were my actions! My choices! My stupidity! Is that what you wished to hear, Uncle?!”

There was stunned silence at such a brash, rude display, then a soft voice spoke, cutting through the shock.

“I would speak in defense of the accused, if it please Your Majesty. Before he can allow his stupidity to sink him further into the quicksand he pretends not to see?”

A low, muttered oath came from the oldest prince, just loud enough to draw a hiss of censure from Dis as the small form of the hobbit elbowed his way forward.

“We will hear the words of Lord Frodo, Hero to all Free Peoples of Middle Earth.”

His formal, cold tone conveyed quite clearly that he did not welcome them, however. He wanted to finish this with the least amount of fuss and stress to Kíli as he could, and the hobbit was not helping. Until now, Frodo had stayed clear of the family dynamics beyond expressing his anger at Therin for the poor choices his friend had made. The hobbit had viewed it as a family issue, one that he was not in a position to interfere with. Now, those polite restraints had obviously been removed.

"While I do not condone Therin's actions, I ask that you remember that he is unversed in the ways of war."

Well, that was true enough. Even during the siege of the mountain during the War of the Ring, the boy had been kept deep inside, sheltered with the young dwarflings and their mothers.

"The Shire is a peaceful land, where such actions, while malicious and ill thought out, would not have the tragic consequences they did here." Frodo shifted nervously, one hand worrying at the stump of his missing finger, a sure sign that what he was about to say was personally raw. "At W-weathertop, during the quest, my own kin lit a fire high on the hill, unwittingly signaling the Nazgul hunting me. I was h-hurt, almost killed, by their actions, but I do not blame them."

For a long moment, Thorin was at a loss for words, astonished. Frodo did not willingly speak of what he had suffered on that long journey, especially not Weathertop. For him to do so now... How was he to refute the hobbit’s words without sounding as if he insulted the courage the other showed?

"Merry and Pippin did not wave a torch to signal them because a stranger told them that they should be jealous of the heavy burden you bore, then abandon you there, either. In your analogy, Lord Frodo, that is how Therin is accused of acting." 

Fíli’s harsh words rang out from the side, startling the king with their vehemence. He saw Kíli flinch as Dis began to softly cry, finally prompting the stiff figure next to her to try offering a bit of spousal support. She would not bear Vili's touch, however, brushing him off to stand straight, unheeding of the tears, a proud princess of Durin. Thorin's heart ached at the action, knowing that his next official act might well be the dissolution of their marriage; a rare act among dwarrow, but not unheard of when the bonding was a political one.

Therin, who had stood silent and white faced during this, then broke with tradition, grabbing the hobbit's arm to speak with him in a low, urgent voice. One of the guards moved to stop him, but the king gave a small shake of the head. Let Therin say his piece, especially if it aided in ending this quietly. A glare sent Fíli back to his spot behind Kíli, who looked to be at the end of his strength, pale and perspiring heavily. They needed to get him back laying down, and the worst part had not been even begun.

"I thank Lord Durin and the Council for hearing and considering my words."

Frodo spoke the ritual words before backing away, light blue eyes stormy.

"Would anyone else speak on this matter before we hear from the one whose blood was spilled?"

It was a rather unsettling way to say 'victim', but certainly accurate. Vili started to step forward, but Dis grabbed at the stub of his bad arm, yanking back hard to hiss something in his ear. The former miner scowled, but gave a short nod to his wife, tensely returning to his spot as the silence stretched. Finally, seven slow hammer strokes sounded throughout the large room, signaling the end of this part of the court.

With a slow, partial bow to the princes, Thorin stepped back, joining the other six dwarrow who made up the tribunal, hands fisted to remind himself that he could not interfere in what was about to happen. Fíli took his brother's cane, drawing Kili's good arm about his own shoulders instead. Slowly, the brunette found his feet, then the princes paced up three steps to the edge of the dais. At another stroke of the hammer on anvil, Fíli withdrew, leaving the youngest of Durin's princes to stand alone, the iron wood and steel cane his only support. As Kili's unbound hand wrapped around the wood, the miniature Arkenstone in his palm flared, sending colored lights dancing around the cane in a mockery of the snakes that had almost claimed his life.

Every inch a true prince, Kíli stood tall and straight, face stern and unflinching. Slowly, he pronounced the words that might well permanently tear the family apart. 

*****888*****

As he stood with the solid, reassuring presence of his older brother behind him, Kíli prayed that the shaky nerves and nausea he suffered did not show. He must be strong, a child of Durin today! He could not crumple, allow weakness to send him to his knees in front of so many! Deep breaths...

He had thought himself ready, that this would be no different from the monthly Prince's Court he held in the Great Hall of Erebor, but this was no stranger facing him, nor a crime that had happened to another. He was the victim, and the accused his own flesh and blood! Why could Fíli or Thorin not take this one?

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he berated himself for it. He knew why; had it explained again after the first trial where he had been obliged to hand out a death sentence, then fled, to be sick in the first ornamental potted plant he came across in the hall. It was the traditional duty of the second prince to preside over such things, a role he had been trained in as a child with Balin. That did not change because Fíli had refused the mantle of kingship. It was very difficult, returning to that cold stone chair the next month, but he had done it, becoming a more thoughtful, caring dwarf in the process. He could do this, too. 

Brown eyes locked with blue below him. Therin glared, resolute, almost defiant, as if daring his brother to go through with this. It was the tiny little mocking smile, however, that snapped Kili's last nerve. Perhaps it was time to remind this arrogant little brat who was on trial here! There had been admission of guilt and excuses in plentiful supply, after all, but not once did Therin offer any apology to the one he had wronged!

"Let justice be done! I, Kíli, son of Dis, grandson of Thrain, Prince of Erebor, ask the council to ratify this judgment: that Therin, son of Dis and Vili, forevermore be stripped of his rank and privileges as a Prince of Durin's blood, and that furthermore, he be kin-wrecked, never again to claim the noble bloodline. He is no brother of mine, but a jealous, petty child of no standing among dwarrow, to henceforth succeed or fail upon his own meager talents."

As the hammer rang forth its slow, seven beat cadence once again, each of the councilors spoke, each 'aye' bringing anguish or triumph, depending upon the listener. Tears streamed unchecked down Dis's face, while Vili was simply livid. Most of the dwarrow, however, were nodding agreement, while even Frodo was sadly resigned.

"Justice is served."

It was Thorin's deep, regal tones that brought the affair to an end as Kíli swayed, relief washing through him, along with an ache for this stranger who once could have been another brother. An arm came about him as he watched the final stages of the ancient ritual carried out below him. Like with Thorin when he left behind his old life to become King of Khazad-dûm, Therin would be stripped of all that had previously marked him. This was no willingly cleansing, however, but a brutal stripping, almost as difficult to watch as it must be to live, for family was one of the fundamental pillars of a dwarf's life. To have that taken-

"Come on, Kíli, you need to rest. It's done. He made the choices that led to here, not you. Come on."

Blinking away tears that threatened to blind him once more, Kíli nodded at Fíli’s words, stumbling as the last of his strength drained away, burned to ash like Therin's old life.

*****888*****

Therin stood, numb and unresisting, as several dwarrow roughly cut his garments from him, the fine embroidery lovingly hand stitched by his mother ripping away with damning pops of the threads. It took only moments for him to be left standing in nothing but him smalls, rough wool prickly against suddenly cold skin.

He had been warned that this was to come, but a part of him could not believe that it would truly happen. Surely his own kin would not do such a thing because of a joke, no matter how ugly the unplanned outcome! He was a prince, born of royal blood, in line for the throne! They could not! Mind whirling, he grasped for anything that might deny the reality around him as rough hands pushed him to one side, a bonfire flaring so close that his back began to sweat.  
His king's stone and sigil! Surely they would be unchanged, permanent stone unheeding of the petty judgment of mortals! Heedless of the staring and whispers around him, he dug into the inner pocket sewn into his small cloths, the smoke of the fire burning his gear making his eyes water. At least, that was what he told himself. The turquoise of the king's stone that his uncle had given him was tarnished looking and dull, sending a wave of nausea through him, but it was the second one that brought him to his knees. 

When a child of royal blood came of age, their personal sigil was presented to them engraved on a gem or stone taken from their place of birth. For him, it was a gleaming green Erebor marble about the size of his palm. As he watched, horrified, the stone turned black and crumbled to grit that fell through his fingers to be ground under the boots of uncaring dwarrow shoving past him.

With a keening wail, he hit his knees, the truth finally hitting home deep inside. He was truly kin-wrecked by his mother's family. Therin, Prince of Durin's Blood, was dead, never to be revived. He was on his own, to choose a new path in life and make his way as best he could. He could even return to Erebor if he chose, so long as he made no claim to the royal blood. Should he change his name as well? Reject them as utterly as they had turned from him?

A blanket settled about his shoulders as anger and pain burned, fighting for possession of his soul. By what right did they sit in high and mighty judgment? Did they not make mistakes as well? How could Thorin claim to rule when his actions had not only once brought the free peoples of the region to the brink of war with one another, but led to the deaths of the remaining male heirs of the elder line of Durin? Surely that was a worse crime, and yet no one threatened to take from his uncle what was rightfully his!

"Oh, love..." His mother's arms enfolded him, and some barrier deep inside broke, dissolving into tears on her shoulder. One hand stroked through his hair in a gesture of comfort too rarely given. "I wish I could fix this for you, Therin, but I cannot. I would not blame you if you did not wish me around anymore, but know that I will always love you, my son. Part of this is my failing, too."

Therin let out a moan, arms tightening about her as he could not bear to see her face just now. Did she not realize the truth underlying her words? That even now, she made this about herself, as she had done since he was a child?

"Where is Father?"

He did not want her guilt and suffering added onto his own, needed to distance himself.

"Gone to find you some new things among the supply piles. They will not be of the quality you are used to, but better than standing about in naught but your unders."

Therin nodded absently, allowing her to guide him as they stumbled back to his small corner, only his blankets left untouched by those who had made sure the sentence was carried out. Sinking down, his fingers longed for his pipe, or knife, or anything else that had been his alone to fiddle with. It was all gone. Burned. Except-

There was a crinkle of parchment under the blanket where his hand dug into the wool.

"Please, Mother, I would like to be alone."

It was hard, so hard, to stay civil with her and not wince away from the guilty fussing. Finally, though, she walked away, head bowed, and he fished underneath for the hidden message.

_"The truth the false line of Durin does not wish spoken already spreads through the ranks. Await further instructions, our young prince."_

Therin allowed himself nothing beyond a single, tight nod, knowing that the unseen watchers would carry his acceptance back to the ears of his other uncle, the one willing to accept him as he was.


	42. One Step Forward...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an important meeting takes place and a betrayal is realized...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

42\. One Step Forward…

Thorin glanced around at the gathering at the ancient stone table, tallying the faces before giving Bofur a nod. It was late evening, the delay caused by the necessity of allowing Kíli some rest after the strain of the court this morning. The stone door was pulled closed with a dull boom, sending a vibration through the council chamber, like the warning rumble before an earthquake. Except this disaster was one the king hoped to not only ride out, but trigger precisely where and when he wished!

Bofur, of course, was there, as was Einarr for the Blacklocks; Bodil of the Ironfists; Eirik, Warmaster of the Stonefoots; Iari for the Broadbeams, a friend of old; Prince Ónar, cousin to the Firebeard king, with his fiery beard and temper to match, also known to Thorin from the past; and Njord, a Stiffbeard who looked as if he wished to be anywhere but where he was. Fíli and Kíli slid into their seats to Thorin’s right hand, Kifir an ever hovering presence at the younger prince’s elbow. For the elves were Legolas, Tauriel, Elladan and Elrohir, all of whom the gruff dwarf king had surprised himself by thinking of as friends. Next to them sat the tall, broad figures of Faramir, Wyvern, and the old Ranger, Balan, representing Gondor, the healers of all races, and the men of the west respectively. Frodo and Ori, looking nervous but less fearful, were to the side, taking notes, and Nori stood a silent sentinel near the hall door, while another guard, anonymous in his full helmet, guarded the other entrance.

“I have called this conference so that we may discuss plans to deal with the Death Warriors and their leader, the so-called Lord Naragel, once and for all time. Some of you have come to me with rumors spreading among your warriors – that Naragel is of the Line of Durin, he is, or was, dead and returned, that we have traitors among us, that the very stones of Khazad-dûm favor this evil creature. That he might even command an army of the dead.” 

Thorin heard the mutters at that, knowing he must start with some of the more outlandish whispers running through the camp first. Kíli winced at the one about the stone, while Fíli rolled his eyes.

“I wish I could tell you that all were false. Unfortunately, they are not.” He held up a hand to forestall the exclamations he knew were coming. “The truth is that yes, he was once of the blood of Durin. My brother, Frérin.”

“Was?” Lord Bodil demanded sharply, arms crossed and face set in disapproval. "Was he either kin wrecked or banished, then?"

There was an almost hopeful mutter at the question, deepening the king's unease. It was almost as if his brethren were grasping at any legal twist they could find... No doubt who was instigating the trouble, either. Thorin heartily wished the Ironfists had either sent anyone else, or better yet, no one. That one had always been more trouble than he was worth, delighting in stirring contention at the rare meetings of all Seven Families. 

"No!" Thorin spat that out, disgusted at the very thought, then continued in a softer tone. "He was not, as we had no idea he had been captured, not slain. I, myself, held what I believed to be his body in my arms. Additionally, he had no choice in the betrayal."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

The Ironfist snapped, lip curled in derision.

"It means that my uncle was a victim of Sauron!" Fíli spat out, leaning forward intently. "It is well known that the evil of Mordor could corrupt those it touched, killing them and capturing their shades as servants, or playing upon the greed and anger of the living, but those were not the only ways Sauron destroyed souls. Those who were too strong to be turned to wraiths and too moral to be corrupted were made to drink a... taint. Similar to morgul poison in origin, but much more difficult to make and rarely used, as it supposedly killed more than it successfully...burned. It destroyed all that was good and moral in its victim, leaving him or her a loyal servant of Sauron with the memories of their former life intact, making the most twisted, evil acts seem logical and necessary."

At the skeptical looks cast around the table, Thorin retook the floor, Fíli sinking back into his seat. Kíli laid a hand on his brother’s arm, leaning over to murmur something in comfort. Of them all, Fíli had the best understanding of what had happened to Frérin, having been touched by a much weaker version of the foul brew and almost killed Bofur and Thorin as a result.

“Durin IV lost his only son to such poison, and I believe that it was used on Frérin after his capture at the Battle of Anzanulbizar.”

“Or you do not wish to admit that the Line of Durin could fall to more than gold sickness, as if that wasn’t bad enough!”

The snide comment came from the Stiffbeard. Before Thorin could calm himself enough to respond, Legolas stood, cool and regal.

“Perhaps you were not aware that such foul corruption leaves a taint easily felt by the Eldar, Master Dwarf. I assure you, Lord Thorin speaks the truth, this Naragel reeked of it.”

“And we are to take the word of an elf?”

Lord Njord bristled, dark eyes fixed on the elven prince in open challenge.

“Whether you believe or not is irrelevant.” Kíli cut in, re-bound eyes turning sightlessly in the general direction of the offender. The healers had been adamant that if he would not rest, he would at least not further strain his recovering eyes. “What matters is what we plan to do about it. Our foe knows Thorin, knows how he will react, what tactics he will use. We cannot win that way!”

“So, we draw him into an attack and kill him. That’s the way dwarrow have always done it. We are not a subtle people.”

Ónar shrugged, looking almost eager to begin such a bloodbath.

“Which is exactly why we can’t do that, you idiot.” Einarr huffed, pinning the western lord with a look of utter contempt. “Goblins and orcs breed faster than rabbits, we’ll be vastly outnumbered!”

“Why is that a problem?” Another scoffed, “Any dwarf who cannot account for at least ten by himself should be ashamed to name himself a warrior!”

“And when there are twenty or thirty to one? What then?” Fíli’s soft question was chilling to those who had seen such battles. “I have stood against those odds, Eirik. It ended very painfully.”

"Whatever!" Lord Bodil spat, one hand waving such things away as if of little import. "I want to get back to this supposed taint. If it truly exists, why have we not seen it? The Ironfists are no strangers to the works of Mordor's lord!"

"Nor to his money."

Einarr grumbled, just loudly enough for the others to hear. Bodil's face instantly went purple with rage, hands grasping emptily for weapons that had been banned from the chamber for just such a reason.

"Why you no good, greasy, cowardly, back stabbing-"

Einarr simply rolled his eyes, unruffled by the insults while the Stiffbeard on the other side of the livid lord reached up and pulled him back down into his seat. The Blacklock snorted, meeting his antagonist glare for glare.

"Oh, go jump down a mine shaft, you stubborn idiot. You're nowhere near as innocent or as ignorant of this as you claim! The orcs called it the Blood of the Master, and you know it!"

Obviously, the other easterners also recognized the name, as Thorin saw several blanch and others shift uncomfortably. Bodil flushed, but made no move to refute the smug Blacklock.

"It makes no difference to the problem we face, anyway." Lord Iari finally broke the silence, grave and quiet, as Thorin sat forward, eyes narrowing at the Broadbeam. "My lore keeper pointed it out to me the moment the rumors started. The ancient laws set down by Durin and the other Fathers forbid our interference in a dispute between claimants of the proper bloodlines for a throne in any of the seven kingdoms. We cannot favor either Thorin or Frérin, and must withdraw our warriors until such time as it is settled between them, lest their fight draw in the entire dwarrow race."

Thorin swore silently and sulfurously, wishing he dared call them such to their faces. This was about as conservative an interpretation of Durin's Laws as he had ever suffered hearing, and what was worse, many of them would most likely heed it. Even now, he could see the consternation on the faces of lords who had but moments before been debating the best way to end the war and now realized that they should not be in it at all.

The king gravely came to his feet, knowing it was a fine line he was about to walk. He must protest this, but could not do so as vigorously as he wished lest he be seen as defying the laws set down by Durin himself. Yet, he was also genuinely angry that any would doubt his word at what had been done to Frérin, and it was hard to contain that.

"All of you acknowledged me as both Durin Returned and the King of Khazad-dûm. Do you now deny that?"

Phrased that way, he would be justified in challenging any who said yes to personal combat. Iari had the grace to look embarrassed by the whole thing.

"Thorin, we have no choice. So long as Frérin leads the cult and is not outcast, we cannot be in the middle, you know that. You should have called this council the moment that you found out!"

"Forgive me for being more focused on the well-being of my tortured and almost murdered nephew!" Thorin shot back in rage, then forced himself to calm. "Very well, then. Go! And think twice before you ask aid of the Longbeards in the future!"

He just barely restrained himself from adding 'elven-giver', the usual epithet among dwarrow for one who goes back on their word at a critical- and disastrous- time. And speaking of elves...

"We, too, will withdraw, Lord Thorin, though we will return in a few weeks." Elrohir gave the dwarf king a half bow as Thorin merely grunted, anger bubbling up once more. "Our people find the strain of being constantly underground and away from light for long time periods burdensome. We must return to our forest homes to renew ourselves."

As much as the thought of losing more allies galled him, at least the pointy-eared pains had the honesty to tell him instead of falling back on an old law as a flimsy excuse!

"Very well. With the reduction in numbers, I believe it best to move our main camp back to the lower market concourse. Easier to defend."

Thorin deliberately made a show of slamming down the map cases to roll them up, glaring furiously as all the other dwarrow leaders, with the exception of Einarr, took their leave of him. A few at least looked embarrassed. With only those from Erebor, the Iron Hills, and men, his army was less than half of the original size. Alone except for the guards and the Blacklock, Thorin allowed his frustration to boil over, making a sweep of the maps and papers from the table.

"Bah! Cowards and idiots! We are better served by their leaving! They would not support my return to Erebor, either, but when the war was won, they were first in line for the spoils! I do not know why I expected a mere ninety years to have changed them."  
"Can't say I'm surprised by the Ironfists or Stiffbeards, they've always been opportunists." Einarr shrugged, gathering a few of the maps the king had just so petulantly sent to the floor. "I thought the Firebeards and Broadbeams might stay, though. And the Stonefoots. They've always been allies of the Longbeards."

Thorin smiled faintly, his rage draining away to leave him sad, exhausted, and feeling very old. What was done was done, and he had but to make the best of it. He had done it before, after all, with only thirteen.

"Not always. Why do you stay? Are you not subject to the same laws?"

Einarr snorted, rolling a map a bit more forcefully than strictly necessary.

"Hardly. We don't have a king right now, so we came as individual dwarrow, not actually representing the Blacklocks. Most of us have ties to ancient Khazad-dûm somewhere in the family, or just want the cult and their orc minions to suffer. Besides, I know too well that there was nothing left of your brother from the moment they made him swallow that stuff, so the ancient laws don't truly apply, do they?"

The warrior gave him a shrewd, penetrating gaze that let Thorin know not everyone would be so easily fooled. The king gave the barest hint of a nod, deliberately pointing his helper toward some of the papers scattered on the far side of the room.

"I thank you for that." Thorin stared blindly at the maps in his hands as his mind considered a hundred different possibilities. "I'll need you and your second to substitute for Dwalin as we move camp. We'll use the stairs as our main route, but there is also a secondary on the maps. Familiarize yourself with both of them, then burn the marked map. Find whoever is free to take your patrol."

Einarr's eyebrows shot up, and he froze, staring at the king in absolute shock. 

"You want me to step in for Dwalin? A Blacklock?"

"A warrior who has proven willing, able and loyal. What care should I give to the blood that runs through your veins? Especially when it matches some of my own."

That was obviously not the answer that the other had expected.

"What do you mean?"

Thorin chuckled, pleased to have finally confounded the other.

"Have you not learned your histories? Durin is the only Father who woke alone, without a mate. He married the daughter of Blacklock."

"That's the legend, but-"

Einarr stopped, flushing as his eyes took on a bit of awe, and then he gave a profoundly formal bow.

"Forgive me, Lord Durin, I had forgotten to whom I spoke."

Was it Thorin's imagination, or did the guard in the full helm look a bit familiar? The king shrugged it off, knowing that Dwalin kept careful track of who served in here.

"Come, we have other things that must be seen to. Guards, make sure the rest of these papers are picked up and turned over to the Lore Keepers."

Out of the corner of his eye as he left, Thorin thought he saw the helmeted guard stuff something into his tunic, but fortunately, his body blocked the move from Einarr. As they made their way down the corridor, an agitated Fíli met them.

"Fíli! I had thought you would be with your brother!"

The golden prince shook his head.

"He's with the healers, Mother's there. Thorin, Therin is gone! Einarr's second just reported it to me. Well, as soon as he became conscious."

"Conscious?"

Einarr questioned sharply as Bofur and Nori pelted around the far bend, breathing hard, axes to hand.

"Treason! Thorin, that little brat knocked out one of the guards and stole his armor! We just found him in the store room! He probably heard everything you discussed in council!"

"Come, all of you!" Thorin commanded, waving them into camp, where they had already caused a stir. "If Therin truly means to betray us, then he is long gone by now. Nonetheless, we will not use the main route, falling back to the secondary."

It was only when the others had turned away that Thorin allowed himself a sigh of relief deep inside, the first step of his plans apparently having come to fruition with the unwitting aid of the cult itself.


	43. Ambush!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an ambush... but who is tricking who?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
> 
> Author’s Note: No Internet for three weeks and only spotty service now makes Scribe a very cranky lady. Thank you so much to all who leave kudos and especially review! I am sorry if I can’t answer everyone personally this time, I am sneaking this in as I have Internet!

43\. Ambush

Thorin tried not to allow his uneasiness to show as the large group moved into the hall on the fifth upper level. Changing their route off the main stairs had placed them in the perfect position for an ambush, though it was much less predictable, so they might sneak by. Unfortunately, sneaking past was exactly what he did not wish to have happen, yet the thought of the slaughter if this went badly…

Thorin struggled to distract himself by glancing around, taking note of every stone and fallen column. The old learning hall was full of debris, including the remnants of wooden tables and chunks of rock from destroyed columns. The ceiling soared up another level, with a balcony running along both of the longer walls, accessible from sixth level upper. It was almost identical to the one on the lower deeps where Durin V had died, a coincidence Thorin tried hard to thrust from his mind. He felt as if he were walking to his doom.

"Stay sharp!"

Einarr's second bellowed from the front, the call echoing through the ranks of the much reduced army. All the wounded except Kíli had been evacuated with the dwarrrow who were returning home, as well as many of the noncombatants who had been supporting them. This had included Vili, Dis and Dwalin, who had developed a fever from the arrow wound. Senata had drugged the large warrior, probably the only way the healers could remove him without threats raining down upon their heads. Thorin almost pitied the elves who were about to be his involuntary hosts. Almost. 

"Thorin..."

Fíli was walking with his brother, one hand hovering near Kili's good arm, just short of grabbing him. Stubborn as always, Kíli had insisted upon walking with the aid of his cane, mithril sword gleaming on his back. With the damage to his shoulder, there was no way he could draw a bow, and even the blade would require he drop the cane, but at least he was not defenseless. He had not wanted either of the princes here, but had to concede when Fíli pointed out that his plan might easily fail without them.

"Yes?"

The king prompted when his oldest nephew hesitated. Before the blonde could answer, however, Einarr came closer, a scowl on his face.

"Is it just me, or is there more debris in here than there was last week?"

Thorin forced a smile, shaking his head as he cursed the observant Blacklock. 

"I think that you confuse it with the one on the lower-"

"Attack! Dwarrow, to arms! To arms!"

The yell from the back of the army snapped Thorin's head around in time to see goblins, orcs, men, and dwarrow pouring through the doors of the hall.

"Form up!"

Einarr's deep call cut through the first rings of steel upon steel. In response, the dwarrow and men of Thorin's army backed into a compact half-circle anchored by one wall. The cult members crowded every open space, jeering and catcalling at the surrounded army. Seemingly endless in number, he could almost feel their thirst for blood. This would be short, messy, and brutal.

"Kifir! Bofur!"

At Thorin's sharp call, the two dwarrow each grabbed one of the princes by the arm, pulling them back toward the innermost layer of the semi-circle. The most protected spot in a dangerous situation, but more importantly, next to the escape tunnel teams had been quietly unblocking for two days now. A tunnel unknown to the cult. Should Thorin's plan prove a disaster in fact instead of just by appearance, Erebor's leadership would survive. Kifir and the rest of the princes' guard had orders to do whatever was necessary to ensure that.

"Oakenshield! Brokenshield! Death! Death to the false Durin!"

The chant earned a growl from someone to the king's right, and he turned to find Einarr at his elbow, a dark, more compact shadow of the one who should have been there. Same attitude, though.

"You want me to shut that filth up?"

Thorin's smile was feral.

"No, let them savor their supposed victory a moment or two more before we collapse the tunnel on them. Has anyone spotted their leader?"  
Thorin adamantly refused to soil his brother's name by attaching it to the creature opposing them.

"His banner is near the back, protected."

No, he would not be one to gloat until he was certain that he had the upper hand. To move himself before being certain would be folly, however. A bit of provocation was in order.

"Force his hand."

He ordered the Blacklock curtly. Einarr turned and barked one short word in Khuzdul, making the king's banner dip three times. It was the traditional dwarrow signal asking for one last attempt at diplomacy. Or, rather, the trading of insults that served in that capacity for the pugnacious race. Silence spread over both armies as those few engaged fell back, eyeing one another uneasily. There were a few grumbles about what the two sides could possibly have to discuss, but Thorin simply bided his time, staring at the black banner across from him.

A stir, and a single figure stepped forth from the cult, clad in somewhat battered mithril and steel armor. Thorin allowed his lip to curl even as he stepped out to meet the other, ax of Durin to hand and Orcrist on his back.

Frérin had never had the patience to learn any kind of smithing, attending Thorin's lessons only because his father said he must. Thrain had been unusual in that he believed his sons should have at least a rudimentary knowledge of what their subjects did, lessons Thorin had been grateful for in exile. Frérin, however, had always viewed them as time wasted from his weapons training.

Obviously, no one in the cult had taken care to learn, since the fine looking armor worn by the other leaders clustered behind him were in equally poor shape. Then again, Thorin was uncertain if any living smith yet knew the secrets of mithril forging besides himself.

"Brother." Naragel sneered.

Thorin kept his temper in check and his face impassive, knowing the other sought only to rile him. This was not Frérin, could never be his mischievous, opinionated, stubborn, silly little brother, just a dark shadow who had stolen his face. Naragel made a show of looking around, then held out his arms in puzzlement.

"My dear Thorin, what could we possibly have to discuss unless it is your surrender? Your army is surrounded, with only cowards and invalids left free to rescue you. Bit careless, that. Unless you planned to be a stubborn fool as Thrór was and get them all killed? I can arrange that if you truly insist, but it would be such a waste. Not to mention the clean-up... Well, I can let the orcs and goblins take care of-"

An arrow clattered as one of Naragel's guards deflected it from the air with his shield. A low growl surged through the ranks of the cult as they pushed forward, only to be halted by a harsh order from their lord.

"Tsk, tsk, brother, very tacky. One would think you an elf to allow such an assault. Besides, do you not wish to know how I learned of your supposedly secret secondary route? You should."

Thorin feigned surprise, knowing of old how Frérin had enjoyed showing off how much cleverer he was then his opponents, especially his older brother. It was a common failing among the highly intelligent or arrogant, and the trait of Gandalf's that most irritated Thorin. Add to that the wizard's love of secrecy and misdirection... Bah! It had been excellent practice for this encounter.

When the king refused to answer, his opponent said something in the stomach curdling speech of Mordor, an insult just coming from the mouth of a dwarf. His followers parted, allowing another dwarf in salvaged mithril armor and a crowned helm to step forth. As he drew closer, his features were easily recognized under the helm.

It was Therin.

In that moment, Thorin was glad he had insisted Dis evacuate with the wounded, as the sight might have killed her instantly. The king sighed heavily, allowing his head to momentarily drop as if in dispair. It was not all an act.

"Betrayed twice over by your own blood, Thorin!"

"Am I?" Thorin raised his head, surprising Naragel with the almost bemused expression upon his face. "Is it truly betrayal when I allowed it to happen? Or was it the best, though unconventional, use of the resources I had available?"

As that phrase from Frérin’s lips had once enraged Thrór, Thrain and Fundin, so now did having it thrown into his own face make the one who had been Frérin snarl in anger. It was a bestial sound that would never have passed his brother's lips, no matter how angered Frérin was. Next to him, Therin's eyes widened and he stepped away from the dark leader, placing him directly between his two older relatives.

The bemusement gave way to a predatory grin as Thorin raised his ax over his head, torches glinting off the mithril so that it almost looked to be on fire.

"Durin!"

At that cry, most of the boulders along the upper walkways and atop broken columns seemed to rise and elongate. The concealing cloaks of Lothlorien were cast aside to reveal elves, each with a bow at the ready. Naragel let out a bark of laughter, as if unexpectedly delighted by the trick.

"Very good, brother! I did not believe you would actually trust elves to such a degree. For your sake, let us pray to Mahal that they remember who to shoot."

Thorin returned smirk for smirk.

"I think they will have no problem. That's a very nice colored band yours wear. Too bad we changed it. Among other things."

Several yelps and short clashes of steel upon steel resounded from all four doorways and two spots on the wall directly opposite Thorin's army. Strange dwarrow flooded any inch of space given up by the cult around the perimeter, shedding blood where the others would not give way. Thorin waited as the incidental skirmishes finished, lesser leaders on both sides bellowing at their troops to hold position. Out of the corner of his eye, Thorin caught the bright reds and yellows of the battle standards of the Firebeards and Broadbeams to the right, with the blue, green, and grey of the eastern families to the left, only the black of Einarr’s people missing. Above, an elf lifted a horn to his lips, blowing a welcoming fanfare, answered immediately by horns from the dwarrow and men. As the last notes echoed from the stone, an uneasy silence washed through the room once more and Thorin raised an eyebrow at the now visibly unsettled Naragel.

"You did not truly believe that the other houses would desert both Durin Returned and the Bearer of the Arkenstone, did you? I would not have thought you to be so blind."

His enemy's response was another bestial howl of rage, the clang of ax upon ax almost sending Thorin to the ground as he fought to block the blow. Foam and spittle flew from Naragel's snarling lips as his eyes gleamed with insane hatred, nothing left but the rage. Around them, fighting erupted into a frenzy as forces kept too long at battle pitch were at last unleashed. Underfoot, Therin had dropped to the ground between the two leaders, shoved aside in Naragel's furious lunge at his tormentor. Unable to crawl away with the fierce fighting on all sides, the boy did the smartest thing and stayed where he was, curled up to protect himself as best as he was able.

The former brothers exchanged blow after blow over the form of their nephew, ignoring any other who came close as they sparred, searching for any weakness in the other. Thorin thought briefly about attempting to draw Orcrist, the sword a bit better suited to this close range fighting, then discarded the notion. His opponent was both too quick and too strong for such a risk. On and on they when, both faces now dripping with sweat and streaked with blood, both their own and from those killed nearby.

The end came as abruptly as the fight had begun. Thorin had been trying to avoid stepping on Therin the entire battle, but his foot finally came down on something that jerked out from underneath him. Another clang and shower of sparks as the axes met sent the king stumbling to land hard on his back, the worst possible position for a warrior in heavy plate mail, even mithril. There was no way he could quickly regain his feet, especially as he was still seeing stars from his helm hitting stone.

A tug at his belt, and his vision cleared to show not one, but two dwarrow standing over him. Therin had grabbed the mithril dagger from his belt and now stood there, hatred and despair warring in Durin blue eyes.

"Do it, child, and I will make you my heir, just as I promised. I will restore what he stole!"

Before Thorin could counter the dark temptations of Naragel, Therin struck. With one fierce, perfectly placed blow, he drove the mithril blade through the damaged part of his uncle's armor and straight into his heart.


	44. Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is much scheming and fighting...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
> 
> No excuses for being gone so long, just a heartfelt apology to all my readers. Thank you for hanging in there!

44\. Best Laid Plans

Everything seemed to freeze as the dagger struck home. A flare of pain in blue eyes, blood bubbling upon sneering lips, and the dead dwarf dropped to the floor in a clatter of metal.

Thorin could barely see as tears streamed from eyes locked with his brother's glassy, dead stare. A shell, finally rid of the dark creature that had made him its own. Was it his imagination, or had he seen a hint of gratitude in Frérin’s final moments?

"Uncle?"

A hand was offered and accepted, pulling him to his feet, and Durin’s ax was thrust into his grip once more. A mailed hand clapped Therin hard on the shoulder, almost sending him to the ground as Einarr joined them, his scowl giving them a momentary peace.

"Good job, lad!"

"Indeed. You did well, Therin. Worthy of your family, both sides."

The lad flushed, flinching as Einarr whirled around, a mailed fist sending a goblin who had the gall to interrupt them flying.

"Sorry I took so long, but- Look out!"

Thorin ducked as weapons clashed over his head, and he spun, gutting the orc who had tried backstabbing him. Rather than collapse with the death of their leader, the cult and its allies seemed to be in a renewed frenzy.

"Fight now, talk later!"

Bofur barked at them as he appeared, shoving an ax into Therin's startled hands. The councilor did not wait for a reply, turning away with a half heard mutter about Thorin and a penchant for dramatics.

Smashed between two armies, escape cut off, and prey to the deadly rain of elven arrows from above, it soon became a slaughter. It was the type of battle that could easily sicken a young warrior's soul even as veterans grimly reminded themselves that it was necessary with every strike. There would be no redemption or happy ending here. Just blood and grief.

Thorin could never clearly remember the next hour, when foe after foe fell to his blade. As with Anzulbizar, it was a blur of screams, blood and gore, too horrific to lodge clearly in the mind, lest those who survived went mad. Snarling faces, the ring of steel, sparks lighting up eyes as blades struck, sweat stinging the eyes, and the gurgle of a felled opponent choking on their own blood, now just one more obstacle to avoid tripping over on the floor; that was what haunted the king's dreams in the dark hours of the nights afterward. At some point, the ax was wrenched from his hands by a falling foe, and he pulled Orcrist, the blue light of the blade etching a trail through the air and enemy alike. Horrid though it was, the battle was actually going according to plan.

That is, until he found himself on the ground again, dazed from a mace to the head, his three nephews standing guard over his downed form, Orcrist having slipped from his grasp to skitter across the floor somewhere out of sight. Kíli was almost on top of him, with Fíli and Therin beyond, keeping their foes well away. A roar in half intelligible Khuzdul told where Einarr was, the mocking taunts of Bofur joining him to shield above Thorin's head.

The pit of the king's stomach rolled, phantom pain of long ago wounds flaring, though he knew no arrows pierced his body this time. Blinking, he could have sworn he saw the slate grey overcast of a late autumnal sky with the bulk of Erebor looming up, but then it dissolved back into the dusty columns and distant ceiling of Khazad-dûm.

He was about to push his way to his feet with before his horrified gaze, history began to repeat itself. He did not see a foe, but Kíli was down, half laying across Thorin's legs, and the king screamed.

"NO! KILI!"

Why had the boy not evacuated through the escape tunnel when the fighting began? He was in no shape for battle! The king ignored his own dizziness to bend, rolling his nephew. Kili's eyes were closed, face white and beaded with sweat. He needed to be somewhere safe, now!

Looking up, the king watched as a huge, snarling Uruk-hai sent Fíli and Therin crashing into one another, malice in glittering black eyes fixed on the downed king and prince. Weapon too far away to grab quickly enough, Thorin did the only thing he could, even knowing how futile it likely was; he hunched over Kíli, protecting him with his own body.

Was this how Fíli had died? Helplessly trying to stave off attackers from two lifeless bodies?

A sound like a massive, high pitched bell rang out over him, sparks showering down and making him flinch. Risking a glance up, Thorin was horrified to see young Therin with Durin's ax held tightly in two fists, blade entangled with the cruel backward spikes on the Uruk-hai's sword. Unfortunately, that left with Uruk-hai with a free hand while Therin strained to hold off his attacker with two.

Thorin's hand scrambled to find a weapon and prevent the tragedy he knew was about to occur. Searching fingers closed on a handle the wrong shape to be Orcrist, but he blindly thrust anyway, hoping to take the Uruk-hai in the belly.  
Life seemed to slow to a crawl, trapping him in the horror unfolding for what felt like hours. Too far behind their foe was a glint of gold and red enameled armor, Fíli roaring as he barreled toward the dark creature threatening his family. The Uruk-hai flexed its huge biceps, pulling the sweat slickened handle of the mithril ax from Therin's hand, making the prince stumble forward, abruptly off balance. 

The gleaming mithril blade of Kili's sword slid straight through the rough forged steel worn by the Uruk-hai and into his gut, Thorin twisting the blade with all his might, but it was seconds too late. Even as the brute slumped, triumphant leer turning to shocked pain as black blood poured from his lips, Therin also toppled to the floor, the Uruk-hai's dagger buried to the hilt in his stomach. Pleading eyes, scared and oh, so young, caught at Thorin's, the uncle he had saved twice that day helpless to do anything but hold both his downed boys, praying the healer would arrive in time.

He did not see the foe whose rude club struck the king's head for a third time that day. All he could see was the death of all his dreams in this cruel place known as Khazad-dûm. 

How had it come to this, a dread repeat of history that he had sworn would not occur?

*****888*****

Thorin drifted, unable to force himself from the darkness even as voices and other remnants of the waking world intruded.

"...should have been able to escape, but the tunnel..."

"...stomach was punctured. He probably won't survive..."

“Dis can’t get here in time, even on an elven steed. We need to-“

"Over here! Therin is-"

Therin was what? Dead? Was that what they were about to say, the owners of the unknown hands that pulled and tugged at him, jostling his aching head? Could they not leave him to his grief? If he had left well enough alone, Therin might still be alive, only exiled! Did they not know of what he had done? No, how could they? Even Dis and Vili had not been told...

__

_Four days earlier…_

_“Therin?”_

_Thorin eased himself down next to the younger dwarf, wary of his nephew after the suspicions voiced about his odd disappearance when the patrol they were with fought a troll. The lad did not acknowledge him, body slumped dejectedly, head down, while one hand held a melting cloth wrapped snow pack against the back of his head. He gave every evidence of a foolish youngling sunk deeply into a misery of his own making, not a traitor slyly plotting his next move. The king sighed, resting one hand gently on the boy’s shoulder while the silence lengthened, willing to give his nephew the time to speak his mind without being forced. Besides, Thorin had had enough of arguments and accusations at the council meeting he had just finished._

_There were those among his councilors who were certain that Therin had already turned his anger into treason, meeting with the cult. They wanted him not only exiled, but at least one had actually called for the death penalty, despite Kili’s prior rejection. They looked at the boy and saw only the failings of the line of Durin, not the strength the king was certain was hiding within. It had been a tense meeting, to say the least, Thorin biting back multiple harsh denials, unable to believe that the basically good young dwarf could truly stray that far from the teachings of his parents and hobbit 'uncle'._

_Yes, the boy had been angry and foolish, but once his good sense reasserted itself, the king was certain he, like his older brothers before him, would be wallowing in guilt and self-recriminations. Therin just took a bit longer to get that far, much more like Thorin himself then either Fíli or Kíli, who had their mother’s more sensitive nature to off-set the Durin pigheadedness. After all, it took almost dying and then actually doing so for him to admit his errors with Bilbo, and that was to an acquaintance turned friend. It was infinitely harder to say such things to those who mattered most, even if they were the most likely to understand and forgive._

_“Go ‘way.”_

_The mutter finally came after several minutes, bitter and resentful._

_“And why would I wish to do that? You are my nephew, and injured, both reasons I should be here.”_

_Of course, that was not quite the whole truth. Dis had all but taken him by the ear, muttering fiercely in Khuzdul about his stupidity and lack of social skills, before pointing him in the direction of her youngest son. Therin, however, did not need to know that, just as Fíli or Kíli had not so many similar times back in the Blue Mountains. Therin was blessed with Dis’ cursedly quick mind, for blue eyes came up flashing fire, Durin temper suddenly stoked to white hot temperatures._

_“So?” Therin spat out, finally looking him full in the face. “A bump on the head is hardly worth caring about, and I won’t be your nephew after court tomorrow! I’ve heard the rumors- kin wrecking at the least, if not outright banishment! ‘Tis the only punishments besides death that would require council approval.” Blunt hands curled in the loose black hair, all braids of rank gone, pulling and pounding against his own head in frustration as the snow pack fell to the side, forgotten. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve gone over it in my head? Cursed my own stupidity and wished I could have made different choices? All I see in my dreams at night are those bodies, with faces I know! I never meant Kíli to be hurt, but no one will believe me!”_

_Thorin closed his eyes, heaving out a sigh, unable to deny the truth of that. All anyone saw was the end result- one of their princes captured and tortured, almost killed._

_“Aye, that is true enough, but Therin, being kin-wrecked does not instantly dissolve all family ties. Legally, yes, you will no longer be a prince or acknowledged by your mother’s line, but emotions do not work in such tidy ways. You will always be my nephew, no matter what you do. And given time, Fíli will realize that being a brother is not so easily given up, either. He is simply too full of Kili’s pain right now to acknowledge that truth.”_

_“I was.”_

_Thorin’s head shot up in surprise at the quiet words, the blond prince easing himself down beside them, chagrin on his face._

_“Therin, I-“Fíli glanced down at his hands, twisting in his lap, then back up. “I allowed my own pain and anger the blind me to what you were experiencing. Bofur rather pointedly reminded me that I was once in a somewhat similar situation, and that I needed to see your side of things, as well. I cannot say that I will easily put this behind, but I do see how you might have made the mistakes that you did. That does not mean that I would ask the council and Kíli to forego punishment, but I did not support banishment. You are my brother.”_

_There were no tears, no words, just a soft exhalation and a young dwarf badly in need of comfort slumping against his kin. Thorin could only hold him, silently apologizing for the neglect he had shown this sensitive dwarf._

_“I do not know why any of you would feel that way. I deserve whatever Kíli asks for tomorrow. I know I do. My childishness almost cost Kíli his life. My actions, no one else’s, no matter how hard I wished to deny it. I’m angrier at myself now than any of you. I have lost my honor and shamed my family. Apparently, that’s all I’m good for.”_

_Finally, Therin was acting the adult that Thorin knew he could be! Relief washed through the king, bringing an almost condescendingly chiding tone to his next words that could have undone everything._

_“That isn’t true, and you know it, Therin. Yes, you made a bad decision in a worse situation, and must bear the consequences as the adult you now are. But so long as there is life-“_

_One fist hit the stone floor, stopping the king’s words, and he sighed. Every time he saw a spark of maturity in the lad, it was overwhelmed by such childish displays._

_“You don’t understand, Uncle! I- I almost left this morning! During the battle, I mean. One of the cult grabbed me, pulled me back into the corner and told me I could be their prince… and I almost did it. I almost went with him right then and there, turned my back on everything. I was so tempted!”_

_That was murmured in a tone of disgusted astonishment, much more reassuring to Thorin than the words themselves._

_“What stopped you?”_

_“Mother and Father… Bilbo.” Therin glanced hastily away, blinking rapidly as his body began to rock back and forth slightly. “He used to tell me about the Arkenstone and the final days in the mountain, you know. How he felt that he had no choice, but so deeply regretted it. He always said that sometimes the most honorable path was also the one that was the hardest to tread. That a true hero was one who did not turn away from such choices, no matter the outcome. He took the Arkenstone, knowing it would destroy his friendship with you, maybe even cost his life, because he believed it the only way out. I knew what he would say, if he saw me running from my responsibility, like I had been trying to do. It finally hit me how ashamed he would be, and angry. How I’ve shamed Mother and Father with my actions. I-I think they’re going to separate because of me.”_

_It took several long moments for the king to respond this time, mostly because he was cursing Dain, himself, and everyone else who had contributed to this impossible situation. Fortunately, Fíli was much quicker to lay the blame where it truly was._

_“No, Therin, not because of you. Ask Mother, your father, Dwalin, anyone, and they will tell you the same. Dis and Vili were placed in a situation that should never have been asked of them, and if splitting their bond is the best solution, you must respect that, just as Kíli and I do.”_

_Thorin reached out once more as Fíli spoke, rubbing his younger nephew’s shoulder reassuringly before clearing his throat roughly. While glad that his eldest and youngest were finally settling their differences, it did not change the facts._

_“This is not an accusation, Therin, but I must ask. What else did the cult dwarf say, and how did you respond?”_

_He saw the flash of resentment and anger that was quickly quelled in the blue eyes, then Therin swallowed hard, nodding, though he would not meet his uncle’s eyes._

_“I-I couldn’t, at first. I didn’t know… When I didn’t say anything immediately, he grinned and said that of course, I’d have to prove my loyalty. I was so torn inside that I didn’t really think, just asked how.”_

_Interesting. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage beyond repairing the damage to his family._

_“What did he say?”_

_“I was to wait for further instructions. It would be easy. They would leave a note and all I needed to do was nod acceptance when I got it. Someone would be watching. Then he hit me on the head with a rock. Maybe it finally knocked some sense into me, because when I woke, all I could see was how stupid I had been, reacting the way I had. I tried to talk with Kíli, apologize, but the healers wouldn’t let me in, so I came here.”_

_Therin ruefully touched the knot hidden under his hair with a wince. Thorin nodded, but said nothing. The rock had not precisely knocked sense in as forced emotion out, so that Therin could assess his own actions and responses without the burden of anger and resentment. Odd, how actions so often led to the opposite of what was intended. It was just too bad that someone had not done the same to him when he was speaking to Bard at the gates of Erebor so long ago; it might have prevented much of the current heartache._

_Even as that thought crossed his mind, however, another crowded it out, and the king’s eyes widened in astonished realization. Thorin knew it was exactly the wrong response to such a heartfelt honesty, that both his sister-sons would likely misinterpret, but he could not help it. The laughter started deep in his core, bubbling up to erupt into a hearty guffaw that had his nephews staring at him in astonishment and rising anger. Therin darted to his feet, face flushed, but Thorin grabbed his wrist, preventing escape._

_“Sit, lad, I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing at the cult and their supposedly clever leader.”_

_At Therin’s confused expression and Fíli’s raised eyebrow, the king sobered, tugging his brunette nephew back down to sit next to him once more._

_“Let me see if I can explain. Mordor did not encourage independent thought in its followers, Therin. There was but one lord and master, one will – Sauron’s; he would tolerate no rival, as Sarumen discovered. But he is gone now, his servants left without new direction to adapt to the altered present, something they are incapable of doing, so they continue the patterns he last set them to. In the case of the one who had been Frérin, it is by applying solutions my brother gave in training to similar situations, expecting that I will also react exactly the same. Do you see?”_

_“Like a machine made for one purpose!”_

_Fíli breathed, eyes widening in astonished understanding. Therin, however, tilted his head, still uncertain._

_“So they are unable to change without someone outside of them altering their path for them? But Uncle, they aren’t mindless machines!”_

_“That is exactly what those taken by the taint are, Therin. Just as the Ring Wraiths were, only our current enemies still have life outside of Sauron’s will, and so did not dissipate with his destruction. Their leader is a machine, mindlessly working in the way he has been made to, walking unheeding toward a single goal with the mere illusion of free will, only changing his path when forced. I, however, am under no such handicap.”_

_Thorin hesitated, assessing the young dwarf next to him before catching Fíli’s eye. The blonde gave a slight nod, his battle trained mind running the same questions as Thorin’s. Would Therin try to run, pass off responsibility again if given the chance, or would he stand true this time? Dare Thorin trust him? Dare he not?_

_“Therin, do you truly wish to regain your honor? If you say yes, do as I ask, you must understand that it will be the most difficult thing you have ever done and I can offer no sureties. If you survive, you still may never regain your title, though I can and will support the revocation of the kin-wrecking.”_

_"Uncle..." Fíli sounded reluctant, grimacing when Thorin nodded at him. "Kíli had not intended to ask for kin-wrecking, despite what the council thinks."_

_Of course he had not. Thorin huffed to himself, shaking his head._

_"I will speak with him. It is necessary if we are to convince the cult that Therin is willing to come to their side. If you agree, that is?"_

_He pinned his youngest nephew with a penetrating stare, watching the flicker of emotions across Therin's face. The silence stretched as the younger dwarf visibly struggled with that, much better than an instant yes or no would have been._

_“What must I do?”_

_********888888*********_

_Therin had enacted his part of the plan even better than Thorin had dared to hope, playing the part of a resentful, embittered and rejected spoiled young child to the utmost, facing Kíli at the trial with defiance. So well was his act, in fact, that Thorin had almost doubted his nephew’s loyalty, mind racing for contingency plans should Therin actually betray them. Between the dramatic court and the council meeting, he had sought out his oldest sister-sons in Kili’s sickroom. Told of his doubts, Fíli had expressed similar misgivings, though Kíli had simply given them a small smile and a chiding shake of the head, insisting on proceeding as they had planned before falling into exhausted slumber._

_“Perhaps it is that those two are too much alike,” Fíli had finally murmured to his uncle, amused. “Kíli can understand him even when I am floundering, but also butts heads with him more readily. Do you truly believe Therin will be able to get close enough to Frérin to kill him?”_

_“I believe he will keep him close, Fíli. Whether that will prove for good or ill, I do not know. At the very least, however, it will ensure that the cult is aware of our route and the likely ambush spot along it. I only pray to Mahal that Therin has enough sense to safeguard his own life even if he cannot complete his mission.”_

_Fíli snorted, eyeing his uncle in disappointed exasperation._

_“You’re joking, right? He’s a Durin, Uncle. He will throw himself into this with heart and soul, willing to sacrifice everything to show he is worthy of his place in the family, just as Kíli did during the quest. I thought you knew that.”_

_It was only then that Thorin felt his heart sink, the enormity of the mantle he had just laid upon a child’s shoulders plain._

_“In other words, I am once more the fool; and the murderer. I have sent that child to his death, and your mother will never forgive me. Even if I find a way to forgive myself.”_

_He did not remark on how Fíli had listened to his plans and allowed it, though some part of him wondered if the blonde had truly forgiven his brother. Fíli sighed, leaning against the wall of the sickroom, eyes on the sleeping form of his brother beyond them._

_“It was what he needed to do, just as Kíli and I knew we had to go with you to Erebor, even if we did not believe we would survive it. To deny him the choice would have been to treat him as a child once more, and I couldn’t do that. If the worst happens, Mother will be angry, and grieve, but she will understand in time and Vili will at least know his son died with honor. Personally, I am more concerned with this council meeting tonight. How do you plan to send out half our army without raising the suspicions of the cult, anyway?”_

_Thorin smiled, lips thin and nasty._

_“That, my dear nephew, is in the hands of Nori and his friends. Let us just say that a few key lords are being quietly reminded of certain ancient dwarrow laws. The cult leader will have no trouble believing the worst of them, just as my brother once did.”_

_“Will you not tell me more?”_

_Fíli implored softly. Thorin shook his head, one hand resting on the broad shoulder that had aided him through so much, even when too young for such burdens._

_“No, I wish your reactions and your brother’s to be as genuine as possible. Once they leave, someone I trust outside Khazad-dûm will explain the true plan before the uninformed feel guilty and try to return prematurely.”_

_“You seem awfully certain of their actions, uncle. If you’re wrong-“_

_Thorin’s smile turned feral, an image of an enraged Dwalin crossing his mind, axes to hand as he glared at any who dared question his orders. He would give a large sack of gold to witness that conversation._

_“I won’t be.”_


	45. Rise of Khazad-dum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin finds that he might not have wanted to wake up...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
> 
> AN: An epilogue to go!

45\. Rise of Khazad-dûm

“I wonder if there’s ever been a king who was hit in the head so many times his brain was scrambled to mush?”

That cheerful question, spoken with just the right degree of sincere wondering, definitely did not make Thorin’s list of the best ways to waken. Before he could summon up enough wits to grumble at the offending Dwalin, however, another voice chimed in, adding insult to injury.

“First there had to be brains enough in my dear brother’s head to scramble, Dwalin. Given his actions lately, I strongly doubt there are.”

Dwalin’s dry huff of a laugh answering Dis’ sally greeted the king as he finally managed to peel one eye open and glare up at his younger sibling. He did not manage more than that before a muscular arm pulled his body upright to lean him back against pillows someone else rearranged. For several moments, it was all Thorin could do to hastily swallow against the rising nausea, his head beating a counter beat to his heart at the change of position.

“You throw up on me again, Thorin, and you’re cleaning it up yourself.”

Thorin bit back a groan, eyes still closed as he hovered on the edge of renewed unconsciousness, trying to recall what he had done to so anger those closest to him. He was certainly receiving no sympathy! Finally, he forced himself to focus wearily on Dis, noting the worry in her blue eyes that her voice did not convey.

“Forgive me, sister, for feeling half in the grave once more. What happened?”

“You allowed the cult to use your head in place of a bell. Uncanny impersonation, too.” Dwalin leaned in on his right, sticking two blunt fingers in the face of his best friend. “Twice, Thorin!”

Thorin’s eyebrows drew in as he crinkled his forehead, fighting to stop those fingers from doubling in number. Irritably, he swiped at them, attempting to bat the arm away.

“Do you mind?” Turning his head ever so carefully, he looked his sister full in the face, wincing at the grief and anxiety he saw there. “The boys?”

The news could not be all that bad, not if these two were teasing him the way they had been. Still…

“I’m fine. Few new bumps and bruises is all.” The dry tone matched the roll of blue eyes at his mother as Fíli entered the room, the barest hint of a concealed limp making him drag his left leg. “Nori’s taking wagers on which healer Kíli drives to insanity first, though. They’re still trying to keep him bed bound. You might need to threaten him with the frying pan again, Mum.”

Thorin blinked, trying to make some semblance of sense out of that as Dis flushed, gently batting her eldest on the shoulder.

"A frying pan?"

Somehow, the regal princess of Durin and such a commonplace kitchen item did not go together anymore, no matter how frequently he had watched her using one in the Blue Mountains. Not as they had during the exile, when she was a harried wife and mother first, princess second. Dis' lips twitched and she shrugged, one raised eyebrow daring him to comment further.

"There were extra supplies piled in the corner of the room. It was the closest thing to hand." 

"Besides,” Fíli grinned, "Frodo swears that Sam defeated several orcs with one in the Records Room. He's with Kíli at the moment, trying to distract him."

"And why aren't you there, as well?"

Dis asked pointedly, silently demanding an explanation from her normally predictable son. Fíli grimaced, mustache braids bobbing as he shook his head.

"I had to step away. He keeps insisting upon seeing Therin and I can only put him off with excuses about both of them needing to heal for so long."

Therin! Alive? Thorin's head shot around, a pulse of pain punishing him for the rash move.

"He's alive? That dagger-"

"Would normally have been fatal, aye." Dwalin acknowledged, patting a chair at Thorin's bedside with a pointed look at Fíli. 

The prince huffed a bit in annoyance, but the careful way he sat told his uncle that he was not as fine as he pretended. 

"The battle ended only minutes after you fell, Thorin." Fíli shook his head with a grimace. "I swear Elladan and Elrohir must have jumped from the balcony, they were there so quickly. They saved him."

"And Kíli?" Thorin raised an eyebrow at that telling omission. "I had thought I made it clear that the two of you were to evacuate as soon as the fighting started."

The prince winced again, head ducking as his hands toyed with a small throwing knife. "We tried, Thorin, but we must have missed a cult member in our own ranks. The tunnel blew and collapsed on the lead team. Fortunately, Kíli wasn't truly injured in the fighting beyond some bruises where his armor stopped the blows. Senata thinks he completely exhausted himself and his body just... dropped unconscious. He's fine, now."

"It's you who had everyone worried."

Dis added, handing her brother a cup of some herbal drought.

"What do you mean?" 

Thorin asked, holding the healer's concoction while trying to decide if the foul stuff might do his head more harm than good. Usually, they just left him to heal on his own with such an injury. Dwalin snorted, face thunderous as he stalked from the room, almost tearing down the blanket serving as a door to the sickroom.

"You scared us all, Thorin." Bofur's tone was the most serious the king had ever heard it. "T'was like watching the bloody Battle of the Five Armies all over again. I thought we'd lost you before you could ever rule. Again!"

Anyone else, Thorin would have chided for dramatics, but to have that level of emotion from the normally cheeky Bofur... Silence fell, broken only when the curtain was once again pushed aside to admit Senata, closely followed by Wyvern and one of the twin sons of Elrond. The king's eyebrows shot up, then he narrowed his eyes, trying to decide if he would be able to extract any coherent answers from such an unholy trio. Senata set the tone immediately, eyes flashing fire as one finger stabbed at the cup he held.

"That is supposed to be empty, Thorin Oakenshield! Unless you truly wish to become Durin the Dead!"

That, of course, caused the king to plant the vessel on the bedside table still full, glaring at the dwarrowdam.

"And just what is that supposed to mean?"

He did not bother remarking on the rather novel tone she took with her monarch, knowing it would do no good.

"It means, my king, that like an egg, your head will scramble if you do not rest and allow the crack to heal! Who even allowed you to sit up?"

"Crack? I wore a reinforced helm."

Granted, his head hurt enough for her words to be true, but most who took such injuries died. Bifur had been the rare exception. Senata planted her fists on her hips, jerking her head at the king.

"Show him, Wyvern."

The young man stepped forward, an egg in a steel cup in one hand and a spoon in the other. Carefully, he hit the outside of the cup once, making the egg quiver, then again. Abruptly, the shell spider webbed and cracked, filling the inside of the cup with the goo that had been safely in the egg minutes before.

“Your head, helm and brain, my king.” Senata bit off the words pointedly, a small smirk of satisfaction coming as she saw Thorin pale. “Now, everyone out. He needs rest. Wyvern…”

“Aye, I’ve got it.”

The young man answered, one sweep of an impossibly long arm sweeping the others toward the door while the ailing monarch found himself being forcibly made to lie flat again by the dwarrowdam healer. It took much less time than he thought to find his eyes slipping closed into sleep, even with the two still tutting over his head and other, more minor, wounds. Even as he did, though, the king could not help worrying over his younger two nephews and a family situation that was obviously still unsettled.

****888888*****

Two weeks later, Thorin Oakenshield, Durin VII, stood upon the partially destroyed watchtower high above the western gate of Khazad-dûm. Below, mixed teams of men, elves, and dwarrow worked at removing the last pieces of the ancient holly trees and stone from the wrecked doors. The foul lake had been drained by Ranger teams joining them from the west and now the gate stream had also been re-established, aiding in washing away the filth of centuries. Unfortunately, there had been no sign of recent occupation by the beast said to lurk here, causing equal parts relief and consternation to the king; thus, Thorin had chosen to make the four day trek through the ruined western halls to the far gate to see for himself.

Some among the teams had taken the lack of yet another brutal battle as meaning the brute had died, leaving its corpse to rot in the foul mud of the lake bottom alongside its unnumbered victims. Others cheered that the creature had fled, perhaps as far back as the fall of Sauron, though how such a feat would be accomplished, they could not say. Thorin, however, had a darker, much nastier suspicion.

“Einarr, Ori and I all think it’s in the lower waterworks somewhere.”

Thorin stiffened at hearing his own fears put into words by the gruff voice of his closest, and oldest, friend, moving slightly to the right in silent invitation for the other to join him. He had always been a dwarf given to solitude and dark, brooding moods, keeping his own council, traits that fit well with Dwalin’s own taciturn personality. Perhaps that was why it had taken so long for the company to note the signs of gold sickness in him upon the quest. It was also most likely why they made a point of not allowing him to go off alone now, even when that required days of walking to catch him.

“I trust you posted a watch.” The look of disgust the warrior gave him was enough to win a faint smile from the stern king. “You lost the dice throw?”

If Dwalin was surprised Thorin knew of their usual method of deciding on who would brave the king’s wrath when he was like this, it did not show. He only snorted, rolling his eyes at Thorin.

“Didn’t bother with you way out here. Kíli couldn’t make the trek, Fíli won’t without his brother, Bofur’s with Ori and Nori always cheats anyway, so…” A half smile and a wave as if to say such considerations should have been obvious. “You’ve been keeping to yourself a lot since the healers let you up, Thorin. What is it?”

This time, it was the king’s turn to snort, shaking his head. There were some things that thankfully never changed, and Dwalin’s bluntness was definitely one of those. This time, he counted with a question of his own, though he knew it would only delay the inevitable.

“Have you and Ori given thought to the positions I offered?”

“Oh, aye, about as much as they deserve.” 

Thorin’s lip curled slightly as a wave of irritation surfaced.

“Meaning?”

His tone was short and clipped, letting the other know that his patience was rapidly disappearing; not that there was much to begin with.

“Meanin’ Ori would have already accepted as Ancient Lore Keeper if the library hadn’t distracted him so much he forgot. More of the oldest scrolls are disintegrating daily, so he recruited the walking wounded to sit and copy them as fast as possible.”

It was such a normal behavior for the young dwarf that Thorin had to chuckle, pleased with the success of his ploy. Nori and Bofur had both been extremely concerned that the years of isolation and trauma had permanently altered their friend to the point where Ori might begin to fade. If old, dusty books and scrolls allowed Ori to remain in the present with them, then that was what he would be given!

“Good. And you?”

Even as he asked, he could see the answer upon Dwalin’s face, and the discomfort it caused as he was forced to say it aloud.

“No, and you already knew before you asked, Thorin. I’ll gladly serve on your council and aid whoever you pick, but I’m too old to be the active Warmaster. Glóin is upon the edge of fading and he’s twenty years younger.”

“And you know as well as I that actual years mean little to a dwarf! The only one you said you trusted to take your place serves as Warmaster of Erebor. Will you leave Fíli and Kíli without expert defense?”

That earned the monarch another glare that would have sent most dwarrow scrambling for a defensive weapon. Thorin simply glared right back. Dwalin gave in first.

“Of course not! No, I want you to offer the post here to Einarr.”

At the sound of the Blacklock’s name, Thorin’s tension drained away, leaving a sense of rightness, as if the final piece of a finely crafted blade had just slid into place. He allowed the silence to linger, however, as he watched the heaving bodies and wood tangled with each other below. Blistering curses in three languages split the air as the team began to right themselves, glaring at the trunk now mired deep in the muck. An exasperated huff was the only warning he had as Dwalin grabbed his arm, forcibly turning the king to face him.

“You already knew what I meant to say, didn’t you? His is one of the two new King’s Stones you found on the shore of the Mirrormere last week, isn’t it? Why did you not say anything?” Dwalin’s eyes narrowed angrily at his old friend and Thorin braced himself for the coming explosion. “Why do you hide up here when there is more work to be done than ever before, re-establishing the kingdom? There are dozens of decisions waiting upon you!”

Slowly, ever so slowly, bright blue eyes raised to meet those of the warrior, truth plain for his friend to read in their depths. Dwalin sucked in a breath, shocked, and Thorin waited for the scorn he knew he deserved.

“You fear the gold sickness.”

There was a profound sadness and disappointment laying just under the understanding of that statement. Thorin, however, immediately shook his head.

“No. I fear myself.”

Only the curses and grunts of those working below broke the long silence that followed those three fateful words. Emotions passed across Dwalin’s rugged features too swiftly for Thorin to read, so he waited, instead, at peace with the truth he had finally dared to speak.

“Durin VI was so corrupted that he murdered his own father for the throne, Dwalin. He knew very well that he would have to live with the memories of that deed, and not just his own, yet he still did it. To be both murdered and murderer… Can you truly tell me you could remain sane after that?”

“You are not Durin VI.”

Yet even as he said it, the warrior was fingering the dagger upon his belt, the barest hint of doubt in his eyes. Thorin slumped against the stone, a resigned sadness in his posture.

“Am I not? At least in part? I almost brought Erebor to utter ruin within days of reclaiming it. Then I became so focused upon establishing the boys in Erebor and retaking this place that I did not allow myself to question what I was doing. To face what would happen when I actually succeeded. Those who believed that Moria was only a black pit, stripped barren of its former wealth were wrong, Dwalin. There are hidden rooms, vaults untouched by any but dwarrow hands, protected by the most potent of the ancient magics.”

“So? You will not fall again, Thorin. The Ring is destroyed, Sauron dead.” Dwalin gave his shoulder a stern shake, then his grin turned decidedly wicked. “Besides, if you do start showing such signs again, I’ll gladly beat it out of you.”

Thorin’s laugh rang out over the valley, causing the workers below to glance up, several waving salutes to their king. Dwalin chuckled, accepting his friend’s slap on the arm and embrace before a haltingly cleared throat interrupted them. Thorin’s eyebrows shot up at the sight of his still pale and hurting youngest nephew with a journey pack and weapons on his back.

“Goin’ somewhere, laddie?”

Once more, the old warmaster broke the silence, making the boy flush, though it was Thorin he addressed.

“Unc- I mean, your majes- er- Thorin!”

“You were right the first time, Therin. I am and will always be your uncle. The council has already reversed the kin-wrecking, as I told you they would. With time, you can prove yourself worthy of being a prince again.”

It was a tone of reassurance that he would normally have only used with a much younger dwarfling, but it seemed to strike the correct angle with the younger dwarf. He flushed again, setting his packs to the side with only a small wince before straightening to face his uncle directly.

“I-I know, uncle, but it does not change what happened. What I did. I- Y-You offered me a chance to live my own life, find out who I am and what I am truly capable of. To define myself instead of having titles, duties and traditions do it for me. I want to take the chance. I’m leaving with the western supply train.”

Therin’s chin jutted toward the edge of the valley, where several wagons waited for escort toward the west and trade. Some had already travelled from the cities of Minas Tirith and Edoras, coming up from the Gap of Rohan to rest here for several days, and be joined by dwarrow teams. Re-establishing the ancient routes were high on the lists of both Thorin and Aragorn, as it would aid all of Middle Earth to prosper once more. Those with all they needed at home were much less likely to covet what others held dear, and those threatened with the cut off of trade should they persecute those different then themselves would at least pretend civility.

Thorin sighed, contemplating his wayward nephew. In a way, he cheered this decision, as it showed a willingness to be his own dwarf, to succeed or fail upon his own skills. It would also give Therin a worldly wisdom that could not be found with tutors and ornate halls. It was for just those reasons that Thorin had once overruled his sister, letting Fíli and Kíli hire out as caravan guards going between Gondor and the Blue Mountains. But it was also a vast disappointment. Therin was running; from his lack of judgment, his family, his duty as a Durin, and once he began to run, it would be that much harder to ever come back.

“Do your mother and father know of this?”

Therin scuffed at the rock with his boot, not looking at his uncle.

“Aye. Mother was disappointed, but she helped me find decent supplies. Father told me to use the name of ‘Vidri’. Said it’s what he would have named me if given the choice. Spoke to Fíli and Kíli, too.”  
Well, at least the boy showed that much courage. Facing Kíli could not have been easy after all that had happened.

“And?” Thorin prompted softly.

“And they said they thought it was probably a good idea, for a while. Kíli gave me the sword he carried on the Quest for Erebor. Said he’d brought it to give to me at the coronation even though it wasn’t a fancy enough blade for a crown prince, but the impulse made more sense, now. ‘Tis well made, but not more than a good guard could afford. Fíli gave me some money, so I won’t starve if I can’t find more work right away. Frodo yelled at me for a while about running, then said I’d better stop by and see Merry, Pippin and Sam when I was in the Shire, or if I needed anything. I just- I can’t stay here, uncle. I can’t be what you need me to be right now.”

Swallowing hard against the disappointed anger that would only serve to hurt them further, Thorin stepped forward, resting both hands upon the shoulders of his sister-son. Gently, their forwards bumped together, one hand coming up to cup the back of Therin’s neck. The lad was shaking with nerves.

“You always have a home here, Therin, never forget that. You are of Durin’s Line, and we do not give up easily.” Releasing the young dwarf, he straightened, holding out a fisted hand. “Hold out your hand.”

Once the young former prince did so, the king opened his hand, dropping a rough stone about the size of an egg into it. Therin looked at it, nose crinkling as he took in the composite minerals. Thorin could not blame him, really. To the naked eye, the stone looked quite dull, made up of pale colors in no pattern or interesting crystal formation, both of which might have made it noteworthy to a dwarf. Or at least that is what most would believe.

“When you camp tonight, take it away from the campfire for a few minutes. I think you may be surprised.”

The king did not add that it also reflected the reality of his sister-son, as well. The disappointments of the surface decisions hid well the true beauty of the young prince within, if only one had the will and patience to see it. Therin’s eyes shot to his, wide and glittering with tears the boy was trying hard not to shed.

“A King’s Stone? After everything-“

Thorin did not know how to answer that, to give the reassurance Therin so obviously needed, but fortunately, Dwalin snorted beside him.

“I hope that by ‘everythin’ you’re includin’ the part where you agreed to a wild plan to fool a madman and save yer king’s life, lad. Twice.” Dwalin gestured to the lad’s gut. “I know those pointy-ears healed you, but be careful of that wound for a while, aye? And come back to us.”

Therin’s bow was low and respectful, first to the old armsmaster and then to his king, all the ups and downs, collapses and triumphs in his answer.

“I will. I promise.”


	46. Durin's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an end...and a beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

Epilogue: Durin’s Day 

“Good morning, Uncle!”

Kíli greeted the king cheerfully, then leaned over to give his mother a kiss on the cheek before seating his wife and himself at the breakfast table. Thorin immediately narrowed his eyes suspiciously, such cheer from Kíli always signaling trouble, to which his nephew flashed another brilliant grin.

“And to what do we owe this sudden mood shift?”

Thorin knew he would regret asking the moment it left his mouth, but he could not help it. In the month and a half since the final overthrow of the cult and the beginning of the restoration of the city, Kili had most often acted like a bear with a sore paw. He had been sulky, grumpy, snappish, and generally disagreeable, not that any would blame him given what he had gone through at the hands of the cult.

Today, however, was Durin’s Day, and there would be a vast celebration throughout the mountain to mark the beginning of his reign. Never mind that he had already been king for several months; dwarrow kings always counted their years from the first Durin’s Day after their ascension. Royals and the representatives of royals had been pouring into the kingdom for days now, including the wives and children of his nephews, and not even that had been enough to break Kili’s sour moodiness.

Kíli shrugged as he carefully boosted his son into his lap, but there was no sign of discomfort from his healing shoulder. Fíli, who had just entered with his little daughter, laughed, lightly smacking his brother on the back of the head. A little dark-haired dwarfling followed close on his father’s heels until he spied Dis and made a beeline for her lap for a cuddle.

“Someone mistook him for you yesterday, Uncle. Said such a glower could only belong to the new king.”

Beside him, Dis began to splutter and choke. Thorin rolled his eyes, fixing both princes with one of the aforementioned glowers.

“Very funny.”

Kíli grinned, then grunted slightly when Kala reached out from her father’s arms to firmly fist one of her uncle’s braids and yank, hard.

“Ow! Kala, don’t, sweetie. Uncle is talking to Great Uncle Thorin.” The child scowled at the gentle reprimand, then giggled when her father whispered something in her ear. “There’s just a feeling about these days, did you notice? I can’t help but smile, and I don’t know why.”

That brought a genuine smile to Thorin’s lips; he knew exactly what Kíli meant. It was Fíli, however, who finally put it into words.

“It’s triumph, Kíli. The pageantry today will be the end we’ve always been cheated out of before, even when you and I took the throne in Erebor. You were so badly injured, it really wasn’t much of a celebration. And I won’t even mention the mess after Smaug’s death. This time, the only problem is that Therin isn’t here, but even he’s alive. He just needs to find his own way for a while, that’s all.”

*****888*****

Hours later, as the very stones of the great hall seemed to glow with song and life, Thorin could not help but feel that his oldest sister-son had understated the case. As the king spied upon the throng gathering below, he smiled, a thrill tinged slightly with disbelief running through him. So many, for a day that he had thought never to see… or deserve. Lanterns reflected off the splendor of the waiting guests, making jewelry sparkle with every gesture and shift of weight. 

Dwarrow made up the front ranks, just below the basalt throne, which was draped in Durin blue and silver velvet. Similar banners hung from high above, rippling slightly in the breeze created by the giant fans that circulated air throughout the kingdom, though smaller ones stood to mark the center aisle. Those were a variety of colors, reflecting the coats of arms of the visitors, as was proper, and the guests themselves had taken care to adorn themselves in matching livery.

Tirik, King of the Stonefoots, stood beneath the grey banner of his people, his brother and Warmaster, Eirik, beside him. Bodil was still here for the Ironfists, claiming that his king, who was also a brother, had been unable to travel due to illness, a spurious excuse meant to insult. Dis had been enraged, but Thorin had waved it off, unwilling to air the dispute where those not of the dwarrow could witness it. He was also certain that Bodil had counted upon just such a reaction. He stood somewhat smugly with a rough looking group behind the yellow banner of the Ironfists. 

The Stiffbeards were next, looking somewhat uncomfortable behind their snow white tabard, Njord, the Crown Prince, still at their head. This time, it was not insult but old age and a war injury that kept the king from attending, and Thorin had been most careful to state that he understood completely.

“It will not be long before he is king in his own right. Lord Buri fails quickly.”

Einarr spoke softly, wary of the fact that stone carried sound too well at times. The Blacklock still looked uncomfortable in the finery of a lord of Khazad-dûm, but he would settle soon enough, Thorin was certain.

“The Blacklock banner stands alone.”

Einarr grimaced at that, shaking his head.

“Last I heard, the fighting had not-“

A stir changed the mood of the throng below, sending up a buzz as those nearest the entrance parted in a wave. The small group coming through the taller races was soon visible from the upper balcony and Thorin caught his breath, staring. By contrast, Einarr muttered a swear word in Khuzdul, body stiffening in shock. Below, the Blacklocks found their banner, its deep purple matching the glaze coating on their armor almost perfectly.

“Problem?”

Thorin murmured to his Warmaster, eye catching on the foremost warrior in shocked fascination. It was clearly a dwarrowdam, and the casual way she moved assured the king that she did not wear the armor nor carry a spear for show. He wondered just how good she was…

“Not for you, my lord. ‘Tis my sister, Kyri. It means that the Blacklock candidates are all dead, and the council of elders selected their own choice. Since they are all ‘dams at the moment...” 

The other dwarf trailed off, shrugging slightly.

“Interesting.”

Thorin murmured, caught by the novelty of a ‘dam leading one of the Seven Families. Considering the amount of casualties taken by the Blacklocks during the War of the Ring, it really was not that much of a surprise. Dwarrowdams were considered equal in dwarrow society, but seldom chose the path of the warrior for many reasons, their numbers being one. Einarr must have caught something in his tone, because the Warmaster gave him a slightly knowing grin.

“Shall I make it a point to introduce you afterwards, then?”

“Quiet, you.” Thorin retorted good-naturedly, glad to find the other relaxing enough to tease him. “Here come the Firebeards and Broadbeams.”

“Late, as usual.”

Einarr was still a Blacklock in mindset, obviously. Thorin would have to work on that.

“They had further to come.”

Marching the length of Khazad-dûm could be quite a chore, though there were flat cars outfitted with benches that served as conveyances in some areas if they could get the tracks repaired and the pulley system working properly.

Below, King Iari proudly strutted forward to take his place beneath that awful puce green Broadbeam banner, his two young princes behind him, and Ónar escorted his cousin, Vali, the Firebeard King. They were adorned in orange, copper highlights giving their armor a very distinctive tint. Thankfully for the comfort of the other guests, the hideous mask-like helmets they wore into battle had been left behind. The two western dwarrow clans had but one capitol since the First Age, but still maintained separate ruling families, deciding upon laws jointly. It became rather… spirited, Thorin understood, when the two rulers did not care for one another. Thankfully, these two not only got along well, they were cousins.

Thranduil, the nearest to them, edged slightly away, a sneer ever present upon his lips. Thorin hoped having to attend the formal ascension of his long-time foe and once prisoner sat ill with the Woodland ruler. Across the aisle from him, the twin sons of Elrond were standing with identical grins on their faces, their grandfather, the Lord Celeborn, beside them. Those two had taken great delight in informing Thorin that their presence would force Thranduil to attend, as well. Legolas and Tauriel were standing pointedly apart, as well. Good. That should make for a very uncomfortable afternoon for the elven king.

For the Men, young Bard II of Dale had come down, joining Eomer of Rohan and Aragorn of Gondor. Behind Aragorn, of course, was Prince Faramir and his wife, as well as a majority of the nobles of their three realms. Thorin could feel himself stand prouder at the long overdue recognition from men. Radagast was also in attendance, having somewhat cleaned up, and looking distinctly uncomfortable with the crush of people about him. The shortest contingent, however, was in many eyes the most important. Standing near the dais were four small figures with very large feet, two proudly standing at attention on either side while the two in the middle looked definitely uncomfortable with the attention they were receiving.

Somewhere out of sight, a hammer rang on an anvil, the beat picking up speed as the audience joined in, using feet or spear butts. 

“Thorin!”

An angry hiss heralded the arrival of Dis and Dwalin, and the king reluctantly turned away, unable to watch the arrival of the other Longbeards as he hurried to assume his place outside the great doors.

*****888*****  
Kíli could feel the excitement in the air as he made his way slowly to their assigned spots, footfalls and cane tapping in time with the beat. At his side walked Fíli, as befitted the elder line of Durin, while just behind was their mother, sister, spouses and children, with the rest of those blood related to Durin behind them, then the other Longbeards present.

It held such a different atmosphere as the solemn meeting of the army when he had to stand and speak of what he had gone through that there was thankfully no comparison. The only ones missing were his Uncle Vili and younger brother, Therin.

“I’d hoped he’d be here.”

He murmured, just loudly enough for Fíli to catch. The golden hair shook minutely.

“It’s not your fault, Kíli. It was his choice then and now.”

“If it weren’t for him-“

“I know.” Fíli’s voice was tight, a note of finality to it that told Kíli to drop the subject, but it still hurt. “Do not let him steal this moment from you. Enjoy it. This is what we should have had at the end of the quest.”

With that, both brothers stepped up on the lowest step of the dais and turned to the crowd. Fíli raised up his arms, though Kíli did not, still hindered by a healing shoulder and a cane that kept him upright. With the single gesture, a final, deep thump came from the crowd and then silence. The next line belonged to him, and he cleared his throat nervously, the crystals of the chandeliers refracting the light and still causing a slight sting to his eyes.

“We gather here for one purpose. To formally crown Durin VII! Do any say aye?”

The other families had already given ascent, and so, that part could be condensed. It was as well, for the ancient Khuzdul that would have been spoken was not for outside ears. Only twice had an outsider ever been present for the crowning of one of the Durins, and both those beings were gone now. The very mountain seemed to shake with the force of the response from so many throats.

“Aye!”

Fíli picked up the formal cadence next.

“We, elder rulers of Durin’s line, do summon Durin VII and Last, to the Halls made by his hand and will,”

By earlier agreement, for there should have been only one doing this, Kíli continued. Both of them had tried to beg off, saying it was Dwalin’s place as the eldest living of the Blood, but the warrior was also Thorin’s shield-brother, meant to escort him in. The next in line, Glóin, was still back at Erebor, and Gimli was technically younger than his cousins. Compromises had to be made, and since Nori and Ori were not openly acknowledged as direct line and Dis could not do so as a dwarrowdam, it fell to the two of them.

“To stand once more in the place that Mahal planned for his First Son, acknowledged by the Seven Families as High King of all dwarrow, Durin’s Folk.”

It was an older meaning to the phrase ‘Durin’s Folk’, which most outsiders thought referred only to the Longbeards. Bilbo, who had seen the etching above the secret door in Erebor, had been one of the only outsiders to understand the truth. That Durin had not had a separate group of dwarrow to call his own from the beginning, making his people out of an amalgamation of his brothers’ folk, and so, in the broadest sense, all dwarrow were ‘Durin’s Folk’. He had obviously passed that knowledge on to Frodo, as Kíli saw that worthy give a slight nod, then lean over to quietly explain it to his cousins and friend.

The deep notes of the horns rang out, accompanied once again by the metallic beat of hammer on anvil, and the great doors of the hall swung open. Three figures stood there, silent, waiting.

Thorin, in the deep blue of Durin, stood in front of two others, waiting seven rings of the anvil before stepping forward to the flair of horns. There was a rippled mutter among the eastern dwarrow as some noted that the king did not wear the traditional brown and red of Khazad-dûm. That would set some of the older, more conservative lords to talking, but his uncle had shrugged it off when warned. 

Behind him, however, both escorts were in the traditional colors, causing yet more talk, especially when someone identified Einarr. A step behind Thorin, the former Blacklock turned Khazad-dûm’s Warmaster, carried his weapons with an ease that dared anyone to comment upon his choices or the king’s. Next to him, Dwalin’s twin axes only underscored the folly of it.

Well, the ceremony was about to be changed even more, so he braced himself for Fíli’s next line as Thorin stood beneath the dais at last. Yet, it was not truly his uncle, either. Kili’s breath caught as he stared down into familiar blue eyes and saw a stranger looking back. There was an ancient wisdom and pain there that he could scarcely comprehend, and a dignity greater even than Thorin’s own. Then one eye winked at him, and it was Thorin’s pleased twitch of the lips that made Kíli smile in return.

“Who bares the crown of Khazad-dûm to its rightful king, acknowledging not only the acceptance of the dwarrow, but all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth?”

Thranduil’s face turned thunderous at that, and he turned as if to leave, but someone, Kíli couldn’t see who, kept the Woodland ruler in his place. Kíli could not help catching the arrogant idiot’s eye, allowing his smirk to turn ever so slightly malicious. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tauriel stifle a laugh and Legolas shake his head reprovingly. 

“I do.”

The clear voice that answered dared anyone to object. Frodo had been adamantly against his planned part until Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and Arwen had all added their approval to Thorin’s request. It was simply good politics, much as it embarrassed the self-effacing hobbit.

The crown Frodo held was a fine weave of mithril, gold, silver, and platinum wire, holding seven stones nestled to stretch from ear to ear along Thorin’s forehead. Supposedly forged by Durin II, it was a breathtaking piece of art discovered in a secret compartment within the royal apartments. Thorin had gone a bit pale when he first saw it, but would tell no one why. 

At first, there was silence as Thorin stepped to face the hobbit, allowing the crown to be lowered, then a single voice began to softly sing the Song of Durin. One by one, all who knew it within the crowd, including a surprising number of elves, picked up the tune, keeping it soft and solemn.

Crowned once more, Durin VII gave a nod of recognition, then majestically swept up the final steps to take a seat upon his throne.

*****888*****

In the shadows hugging the back of the hall, a single dwarf stood behind a pillar, tears streaming down his face. Therin hung his head, pride in his uncle soaring to new heights, along with a longing to be up there with them, but he would not allow his feet to move; to be accepted or rejected by a company of those who had given so much more than he had ever understood for this moment. It was not his place, and perhaps, it was never meant to be.

As Therin walked from the hall to begin the long trek out of the city, he could not help feeling a bit bitter. It should have been his triumph, his place at the side of the king, and yet… Perhaps that was not what Mahal had meant to be his destiny? 

Bilbo’s voice was running softly through his head, telling two enraptured dwarflings and two equally attentive fauntlings another part of the great story of Erebor and its reclaiming, dipping to a hushed, halting sorrow as he related the fall of the princes and the king. Those three had been through trials few could comprehend and even fewer would dare to reach this moment. Peace and acceptance flooded him, a single tear tracking its way down his young face.

This was their moment, not his.

His lay out there, in the unknown future, but of one thing, he was certain; Mahal would always bring a Son of Durin to his true home, no matter how far he had to wander to find it.


End file.
